


pollution, too, can be worshipped (simply because it exists)

by bYeFeliciaah



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, Attempted Caligari Spell, Canon Divergence, Dreams, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, I cannot settle on a summary so zelda is set to marry faustus: enter lilith, Identity Reveal, Sexual Tension, Smut, falling in love with the color blue, zelda dreams about lilith
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-16 07:47:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28578495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bYeFeliciaah/pseuds/bYeFeliciaah
Summary: “You know nothing about that,” She hissed, stepping forwards again until they were almost nose to nose. Twin rivers flashed with part danger, part amusement. For a second, Zelda faltered, breath exhaling shakily.“Don’t I?” She said, cryptic. Mary Wardwell was an enigma. A puzzling paradox of mysteries tied together to form this image of a witch that didn’t quite make sense; incomprehensible. Her eyes held only knowledge, this deep grasp of understanding.-Zelda struggles with her attraction to Mary Wardwell whilst dealing with dreams of Lilith: both of them seemingly surrounded by the colour blue.
Relationships: Faustus Blackwood/Zelda Spellman, Zelda Spellman/Mary Wardwell | Madam Satan | Lilith
Comments: 48
Kudos: 138





	1. eden, she said, there’s no eden

**Author's Note:**

> hi! this is my first caos fic, I’ve only recently gotten into the fandom, but I needed some inspiration to get a story flowing and I looked to a poetry book I’ve been reading. Hence: this was born. All of the poems referenced are from “Bluets”, by Maggie Nelson.
> 
> The main parts of this story revolve around both Zelda’s animosity with Ms. Wardwell and her dreams of Lilith.

_  
Suppose I were to begin by saying that I had fallen in love with a color. _

_ - _

Red, for centuries, had been a colour of comfort for Zelda. It was the colour of fire, of blood, of the very hair on her head—like autumn. She admired the change in the leaves, like they’d been scorched by the summer sun and shrivelled up to drop away as the season changed. Winter claimed them altogether, and everything became...bluer. Blue had always felt rather empty. Devoid of feeling. 

With winter, red tones shifted to the opposite end of the spectrum. Cold and dark. Blue. Empty. It was funny that Zelda preferred winter over summer, despite her love for the colour red, and her hatred for the isolation invoked by something as simple as everything taking on a blue hue.

Where the aversion came from, she wasn’t sure. Perhaps that it was the opposite of everything red and warm and familiar to her. 

Blue was indifference. It was passive and devoid of passion. It held a tranquility to it that opposed Zelda’s restless nature. 

This winter, cloaked in blue hues; it held a sense of darkness. The snow had started early December, gentle at first, but soon enough relentless. Sabrina had trudged in snow for the third time that week, she noted upon arriving home from a meeting with the High Priest,leaving a mixture of mud and ice in the entryway. Zelda had half a mind to make her take her boots off outside from now on.

Sighing, she brushed it away with a flick of her wrist. Why she was in such a hurry that she couldn’t take her boots off was beyond her. 

December had creeped up on the Spellman’s faster than they could start lighting their hearths. Everything had been so chaotic, all seemingly stemming from Sabrina’s constant spark for trouble. In the matter of a few months she’d challenged every tradition of the Church of Night, questioning their roles as subservient witches, bringing light to thoughts Zelda herself had held and hidden throughout the years, biting her tongue in favour of living the life of a devout witch, loyal to the Dark Lord. 

Still, she persisted in fulfilling her role in their coven - going so far as to secure a  _closer_ relationship with the High Priest - and opposed Sabrina’s forthrightness with scolds and the threat her defiance could have to the whole Spellman family. She valued the coven, and their place in it, over teenage rebellion, no matter how close to home it hit. 

And now, now she was endangering herself. 

The first thing Zelda noted upon seeing Mary Wardwell in her kitchen at 7PM, mid December, was that her dress was a deep blue. Navy. The second- was that she didn’t like her being there.

“What are you doing here?” Zelda had been wary of the woman ever since her role in helping and encouraging Sabrina perform an exorcism. Yes, she’d humoured her. Listened to half baked truths, if any truths at all, about Edward and his plea to protect his daughter. She’d also joined in with the exorcism, but only out of concern for her niece’s well-being. 

Ms. Wardwell held a smug sort of confidence that was unbefitting for being found stood, unwelcome, in somebody’s home. “I’m here for Sabrina.” 

“And what might that be for?” Narrowing her eyes, lips stretched in a thin line, Zelda looked her up and down in cold disapproval. Taking in the unnecessarily dramatic trench coat and overly backcombed hair. 

“She wanted help with...a spiritual matter,” She responded innocently. Zelda’d had enough experience with faux guilelessness. 

“I don’t appreciate your ambiguity, Ms. Wardwell,” Her voice turned sharp, unrestrained in displaying her resentment. “Might I remind you that Sabrina is only sixteen years old, and as her guardian, I’d like to know the sort of trouble she’s getting into. With the encouragement of her  _teacher_ no less.” 

“I assure you, Miss Spellman, it’s only a harmless spell that Sabrina requested help with.” 

One of the things Zelda hated most was being kept in the dark.  _Especially_ by those closest to her. Perhaps that’s why she resented Ms. Wardwell so, because Edward hadn’t indulged her with any sort of knowledge surrounding the witch. No: this resentment was a matter of distrust. Of suspicion. 

This felt like a question of her authority over her own niece, these secrets and ‘harmless spells’. 

Just before Zelda could ask her to leave, Sabrina came bounding downstairs, brown ice covering the front of her boots, trying to catch her breath. “Did you bring the book?” 

“Yes, I did.” Ms. Wardwell eyed her cautiously, as if signalling that Zelda was there, but lifted the book regardless. 

“Oh...Aunt Zelda.” Her breath had caught in her throat, trapped; like she was afraid to release it. 

“Sabrina, what is the meaning of this?” Prying the book from Ms. Wardwell’s hands, ignoring her raised eyebrows that looked almost dangerous, she balked at the cover. “A Book of the Dead? What in Hell would you need this for?” 

Sabrina had the decency to look guilty, only at the thought of being caught no doubt, not shameful. “Auntie, I  _need_ to talk to my mother.” 

“You will do no such thing. There’s no telling what dangerous spirits might escape through with her,” Zelda brushed off with a wave of her hand, “I don’t want you haggling Ms. Wardwell with these thoughtless requests any longer.” 

Eyeing the witch pointedly, it was almost a subtle dig that she didn’t want to see Mary in her home again. Before Sabrina could protest, she handed the book back to the witch, standing between her and her niece. 

“And  _you_ ,” She pointed at Ms. Wardwell in accusation, “Encouraging a séance during the Yuletide.” 

“She was only going the get the book from the Academy. I thought if it came from me, with a warning, it’d be safer,” She reasoned, chin raised high. It grated on her nerves. There was something in her features- the hint of a grin just beneath the surface- that was entirely untrustworthy. 

“Auntie Zee, you don’t understand, my mother was—“

“Sabrina. That’s enough.” Ignoring her niece altogether in favour of staring down Ms. Wardwell, she gestured towards the door. “I think it’s best if you leave.”

There were a few seconds of tense silence as their gazes met and remained, static, before she nodded, “Very well,” A glint in her eyes, blue, unintelligible. Zelda didn’t like it one bit. 

She didn’t turn away until she’d slipped out of the door, glancing back only once before retreating. 

“I don’t want to hear anymore of this séance nonsense,” Zelda said, walking into the kitchen. Lighting a cigarette, she brought it to her lips with her ring holder, sat snugly around her finger. “The veil between worlds is at it’s thinnest, you’d be inviting anybody or anything into our home.” 

Huffing, Sabrina spun on her heel and stormed her way upstairs - muddied boots still very much on her feet.

With a deep inhale, the end of her cigarette retreated with a trail of red, a dusting of ash dropping onto the floor. 

Glancing to her familiar, she sighed. “Are we the only sane ones in this house?” Vinegar Tom watched with blank eyes. 

Suffice to say, with a quiet house, it seemed Sabrina had heeded the warning. The Yule log burned throughout the shortest day and the longest night, warding off spirits. If she’d managed to do the séance without fault, well, Zelda wouldn’t know, but at least there were no ramifications (Sabrina’s silence on the matter might’ve leant towards a secret séance. If it hadn’t happened she was sure there would have been more persuasion).

What bugged Zelda more was her inability to intervene with her relationship with Ms. Wardwell. If she had her way the witch wouldn’t be teaching at the school, or anywhere near Sabrina. Alas, her influence only went so far. 

Hilda bumbled on about her trust issues and inability to welcome the help of others. Zelda thought of it as preservation. There was something off about her role in Sabrina’s life. About her role in Sabrina’s choices and magic. It didn’t sit right with her one bit. 

Still, winter prevailed into January and brought new problems that distracted her from any thought of Mary Wardwell. 

Namely, Faustus’s growing interest in her. The more confessions she made to Father Blackwood, the more she left with a burning aftertaste, like ash at the back of her throat. Zelda told herself it was an ambitious move. A look into the future to power. She repeated this like a mantra, until the words had been spoken so many times they felt strange in her mouth, and she tasted the lie in them. 

No: it’d been a moment of weakness. Fuelled by her loneliness, and only sealed by her ambition. 

And in her weakness, she feared she’d been entrapped in Blackwood’s fist. A pawn. 

At first, it’d felt like an honour. A step closer to power, closer to the Dark Lord and the redemption of the Spellman name. Soon enough; it became a bitter thing. Feeling less like gaining power and more about having her power stripped from her at Faustus’s rough hands and whip. 

In moments where this dwelled on her, usually with firm hands at her hips, she drifted, and reminded herself of why she was doing it. To rise in rank. 

It was simple. 

And with that thought, she tried to find pleasure in his force and his gruff words. With it, she told herself she was the one in control, because she had a motive and she was seeking it through Faustus, using him just as much as he might’ve been using her. 

They were equal, despite what Faustus believed. That was the thought that helped her through their encounters, what spurred her to question their relationship after Lady Blackwood’s death (of course after some mourning time- it would do no good to marry early and use the leftover funeral meat, still fresh and warm, for a wedding). Even in her ambition she had some decency. 

With it, she allowed herself to revel in the thought of making her way up. It’d been an age old fantasy, or rather, goal, for Zelda: power. Perhaps it came with having a High Priest for a brother. Or maybe it was something deep within her, settled in her bones, this itch for more. This itch for control and having something more than her magic to wield. Or even: something that came from the Dark Lord. Something that came from Original Sin- this thirst for knowledge, from Lilith- this urge to simply be equal, as was her right. 

The system was flawed in that a woman seeking power was  _seeking power_ , where a man, he was just fulfilling his duty. 

Zelda admired Lilith, she always had, for her unwillingness to accept a role of subservience and paving the path for herself: a path of power. 

It was the reminder she needed to continue her own path.

Faustus was straightening his collar, buttoning up the last button with a grimace as it pulled taut against his neck. 

“Thank you for your...service, again, Zelda.” When worded like that, It sounded like a duty to him at her expense. Faustus was too vain to believe that, truly. Perhaps it was his penchant for the old ways that had dimmed his vocabulary. 

“My pleasure, Faustus,” She offered a knowing smile, more of a smirk, looking down to straighten her blouse as he smirked back. 

Brushing down her skirt, she tried to get it to sit in the way it had before, but there was a crease through the middle. 

“Here.” She tried not to flinch as Faustus reached down to smooth it out, then wiped smudged lipstick from her lower lip. She allowed him to pat down her hair, stood stiffly. It wasn’t tender, more...out of a need for order. Like he was hiding their transgressions. 

Zelda didn’t really care about the opinion of others surrounding her relationship with Father Blackwood. Shirley Jackson had merely been a background voice until she’d started using more invasive methods. It was duty, respecting this mourning period. Not worry of judgment.

That didn’t quite explain why, upon bumping into Ms. Wardwell (of all witches) whilst leaving the office, she was so irked by her raised brows. Quiet judgement flickering across blue eyes—calculating and cold like ice. 

What in Satan’s name she was doing there was beyond her. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m getting a strange sense of déjà vu,” She smirked, unperturbed. Her dress was brown this time, although there was a small broach pinned to her cropped jacket with a little blue gem inside. It seemed to sparkle under the dim lighting - a standout. With no response to her untimely humour, she sighed. “I’m here to talk to the High Priest. He wanted to hear about the church I belonged to.”

It struck Zelda as odd. What the High Priest would want with an excommunicated witch from a different church.

She didn’t have chance to dwell on it before Ms. Wardwell was poking at an unfastened button on her blouse, mischief in her eyes. “Perhaps I could ask the same question.” 

Stepping back at the intrusion, she felt herself growing defensive. “That is none of your business.”

“Likewise, Miss Spellman.” 

It shouldn’t have gotten to her the way it did. Zelda was cold, indifferent, and certainly not irked by witches— _excommunicated_ witches—a century or so her junior. All she could do was huff as the witch passed by her, entering Father Blackwood’s office fluidly. Fastening the button, she shook off the feeling of being caught off guard. 

When she stepped outside, there was a fresh layer of snow, tinted blue by the sky. Zelda wondered why Ms. Wardwell didn’t have a hint on her. She wondered, also, how she’d entered the academy without a member of the school with her. Perhaps she excelled in teleportation. 

-

_ the other night I dreamed of visiting her in her forest_

-

Zelda dreamt of a river. It’s winding path, meanders through a forest lit by the moons glow; brighter than any night on earth—even the hare moon—and bathed in a translucent hue. Blue delphiniums lined the bank. Her feet were bare, sinking into damp soil, soft but compacted against her heels. Every once in a while a twig caught her skin, painless, but grounding. Still, she felt like she was floating, weightless, despite the gravity holding her down. 

The river dipped under a bridge where there was a clearing, and at this clearing sat a figure shrouded by her own hair. Zelda carefully sat cross-legged before her, just as she was, only, her legs touched the damp grass. The woman; she was levitating. 

“You sought for me,” She said simply, eyes blinking. She had no discernible face. Features, yes, but they held no distinction. It was almost as if her face were a blank slate with only the knowledge that there was a face to behold filling in the emptiness. 

Zelda tried to remember any prayers, any calls for help before drifting to sleep. But the fog of the forest weighed down on her mind, and she could only be in the present. 

“Who are you?” She settled for. 

“I am the Mother. The First. The Wanderer,” Her voice was fluid, washing over her in steady rivulets. 

“Where are we?” Zelda’s own voice couldn’t be heard. Like her words were thoughts. 

“Your mind.” 

She didn’t mean that. The forest looked like a garden. Like Eden. 

“There’s no Eden. There’s no forest.” Perhaps her words were Zelda’s thoughts, too. When she focused, she couldn’t hear anything but the sound of the river. Maybe, instead, the woman was the river, and her words its current. 

“Why am I here?”

“Only you have the answer, Zelda. But perhaps you came to seek strength, or clarity.” With a slow blink, she noticed the eyes watching her were blue. 

-

Zelda awoke to the dream in her mind like a distant memory. Slipping like sand, right to the periphery of her consciousness, barely grasped in her fingertips. 

The first thing she did was search through the books in the house’s limited stack to find answers. First, of a translucent forest. Then, of a Mother, a First, a Wanderer. 

The books produced clouds of dust that she brushed away with a simple spell. They smelt of knowledge, of magic and bibliosmia. 

Perhaps it should’ve been clear. Something she could discern for herself. 

She realised, flicking through a parable about wandering through the great wasteland, that all three linked to Lilith. 

Zelda wasn’t stupid enough to believe it a simple dream, conjured up by imagination. Witches- their very purpose was to believe in things that might’ve seemed impossible to mortals, but were, in fact, entirely possible; just with a hint of magic. 

The real question was: why she’d sought for Lilith, why she’d answered, and why suddenly - she felt the need to pluck a delphinium and frame it. 

She sat, studying the story, something familiar to her from her youth. 

The sun hadn’t yet risen, the horizon a midnight blue that mingled with the clouds to blend lighter colours. A waning gibbous highlighted the pages, shifting with shadows from the moving trees outside. Polaris seemed to flicker like a candle as she skimmed through page after page, fingers turning stiff as the sky shifted, hints of orange and red. 

It felt liminal. This space between night and morning—contrasting colours—rest and wakefulness, dreams and reality. The moon neither new nor full, pages neither light nor dark, in the motion of turning. 

There was a moment where reality frayed at the edges and Zelda felt herself slipping into the story (perhaps the right term was biography, or account). Soon enough the trance was broken with a shuffling upstairs.

Hilda looked surprised to see her at the kitchen table, still in her nightgown, books strewn and disorderly. 

Their sleep schedules weren’t fixed. But it was rare that Zelda woke without constructing herself, moulding this image of preparedness and elegance, sitting stiffly at the table. When Hilda woke first, she began with breakfast and coffee, bumbling and bright. 

Despite her confusion, her first instinct was always to accommodate: so she flicked on the kettle and began fixing two cups of coffee. 

“What’s up, Zelds?” She spoke softly as she slid the mug across the table. 

Zelda grasped it, taking a much needed sip to tame the dryness of her throat and hopefully breathe some life into her. 

“I had an early start.” Not quite knowing how much to divulge before she understood the situation a little better, she settled for vagueness. 

“I can see that,” Hilda nodded towards the books, doing her best at a sarcastic tone- though it still came off as kind. 

“Yes, well-“ The sentence was leading nowhere, and Zelda quickly reached for a cigarette; something to distract herself with. “Never mind.” 

Hilda had enough sense not to push, retreating to the hob almost skittishly. Like a frightened deer. Zelda might’ve scoffed if she wasn’t otherwise preoccupied. 

It wasn’t enough. She’d scribbled down the words she could remember, the details. She’d have to research Lilith further - find things she’d never thought to look into before. Dreams - whilst she’d had some that hinted towards future events, she’d never visited anybody in one. Who was to say it was even Lilith at all, but merely a construct. A metaphor for what she was seeking. 

The thing that seemed to nag at her mind most was why her subconscious had sought strength and clarity. 

It was ironic really— how she lacked clarity for why she’d sought clarity. 

Taking a drag of the cigarette as if to clear the cloudiness of her mind, Zelda sighed, toying with the edge of a dog-eared page, and watching the paper split in the slightest. 

“French toast, Zelds?” 

Exhaling a breath saturated with smoke, she leant back in her chair. “Sounds exquisite.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dream is based heavily off the forest poem I quoted. It’s what sparked this story, due to the reference to Eden (or a lack thereof) and the line: “She told me that pollution, too, could be worshipped, simply because it exists.” (Which I used as the title).
> 
> This poetry book also references magic/spells a few times, and I’ve drawn inspiration from a few of the poems that will pop up in later chapters.
> 
> I have a vague idea of where I want to take this, although it’s not set in stone. I hope you enjoyed the first chapter :)


	2. an apprehension of the divine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a daunting moment, Zelda realised she’d thought more about Lilith in the past few days than she had the Dark Lord—the being she was meant to worship.

_Does the world look bluer from blue eyes? Probably not, but I choose to think so._

-

Pulling her jacket tight to her body, Zelda finished her cigarette, snuffed it out on the wall, and made her way into the bookstore on the outskirts of Greendale. She rejoiced in the warmth. 

“Miss Spellman.” The young warlock behind the counter smiled. He was a student at the Academy, one of the younger ones, in her sacred scripture class. 

She nodded in greeting, weaving her way to the back where the darkness shrouded her - whether that was necessary, well, Zelda was unsure. Perhaps she could’ve borrowed a book from the Academy’s library, especially since she’d began teaching there, but something about it didn’t quite feel right.

Her fingers deftly brushed over the spines of books, brimming with magic and knowledge. Running over titles and following the edges, she found bumps in the ridges and passed over creases in the paperbacks. This had to be a sense experience. The sort of sense that went beyond just touch, but to a tug in her gut. 

She followed her path along the shelf, fingers slipping between spellbooks, demonology, astrology. She passed over commentary’s on the Satanic Bible, of Judas and the Unholy Regalia, until she stopped, carefully slipped out a paperback, and traced over the cover. 

It seemed like a Book of Lilith, although; written by a woman, with commentary. 

The background was an inky black, but Lilith; she was vibrant. 

She skim read the first few pages, tracing her nail over the words, rereading and searching for something that stood out. 

_ She is a force, a power, a quality, a renegade. A Free Spirit. She hates to be pinned (penned) down by the Word .  _

It was a stark difference to Father Blackwood’s interpretation he had in the works. Zelda had read through it, sour at the implications of Lilith as a passive woman, helpless to the wild and on her knees. It was almost as if he disregarded her time in the Garden of Eden. _ Go and diminish thyself.  _ How the False God had expected the Moon to dim her light to make way and depend on the Sun, despite how they were once equal. And Lilith, she’d fought against it. 

Perhaps that was the path Faustus would take. Expecting the witches of his coven to be dimmed in order for the warlocks to shine.

“Lilith?” A voice spoke close to her ear, breaking the quiet spell and startling her. 

Turning abruptly, she met blue eyes, familiar with their encompassing sense of amusement. They flickered between herself and the book in her hands. Her own eyes narrowed. “Are you stalking me?” 

Mary Wardwell scoffed, what might’ve been the first time she’d shown outright contempt. 

“I thought your duty was to watch over Sabrina. Not me.” It was rather strange how Zelda seemed to see her around every corner. The inkling that maybe she was sent to watch over the whole Spellman family, with darker intent than first expressed, creeped up her spine. It was possible that Father Blackwood had something to do with it. That would explain why she was visiting his office. 

Ms. Wardwell’s eyebrows raised comically - the witch seemed nothing but amused. “Don’t be so conceited.” 

She tried to hide her shock, but only half managed to, voice rising in pitch, “Pardon?” She sounded like Hilda for Satan’s sake. 

“What’s to say you aren’t stalking me?” Mary replied smartly, leaning against a bookshelf far too arrogantly. She looked overdressed for a quiet book store; hair obnoxiously big (from an expensive blowout no doubt, or just a flick of her wrist), dress tight and elegant. 

Zelda herself usually dressed well for most occasions, but she knew when just a simple black dress was appropriate. 

“You were in  _ my _ home.”

The witch snorted, still almost demure, shaking her head. “And what business would I have in stalking you? So I can see you perusing book stores and preparing bodies for funerals? Ha!” 

Zelda cleared her throat, feeling a little foolish. Unwilling to back down, still festering with suspicion, she looked away in disinterest. Perhaps she was looking for a rise.

After a few beats, Ms. Wardwell took the book from her hands, ignoring her protests, flicking through the pages nonchalantly. “I’m here to pick up a book. You wouldn’t happen to know where it was, would you?” She leaned in close, nails tapping against the shelf right next to Zelda’s head as the book dangled in her other hand; just out of reach. 

Turning her head, she tried to distance herself. “What were you looking for?” 

“Oh, I feel rather mortified, asking you.” Mary’s teeth sank into her lip like a body dipping into water, pulling on the red skin, looking bashful. 

Her curiosity piqued, Zelda wondered what book she could possibly be searching for that would cause such a reaction. Growing impatient, she scoffed as the witch said no more. “Come out with it.” She wasn’t entirely sure she’d like the answer. 

“Well, I need a book on...keep this between you and me... _sex magic_ ,” She leant closer and hushed the words. Blinking rapidly, her eyelashes fluttered as she hooked her nail behind her tooth coyly. It had an air of dramatism that looked almost like she was being mocked.

Breathing sharply, unfortunately getting a whiff of an alluring perfume, Zelda stepped back. What game was she playing at? She had that same faux innocence shining in her eyes, an image of naivety, yet a hint of utter sin. 

“No. I wouldn’t know where that was,” Turning her chin up, Zelda folded her arms over her chest. Ms. Wardwells’ eyes followed the movement, predatory. Sex certainly wasn’t something she was shy about, but suddenly she felt mortified. 

“Oh well, a shame,” She shrugged, brushing her hair back. “I guess I’ll go find it myself. Enjoy your...reading.”

With much effort, the witch placed the book back in Zelda’s hands, gaze remaining on it for a few beats before flitting back to her, smirking as she slinked off. 

Releasing a shaky breath, Zelda’s shoulders dropped from their taut position. The tension in her body seemed to dissipate slightly...why this witch had her so on edge, she’d never get to the bottom of it, she was sure. Perhaps it was better off that way. Ignorance. Though, she might’ve had an inkling. 

Resuming what had previously just been a search for books, but now became avoiding eyes through slits in the shelves and favouring certain corners over the other, Zelda rushed to find what she was looking for. 

As she was at the checkout, two books about Lilith, one on dreams, she caught Mary’s heavy gaze. Tapping the book in her grasp with her azure nails to alert her, almost sensual, she mouthed out,  _ found it _ , with a smirk. 

Zelda had no excuse for the way she’d teleported out in the open where a mortal might’ve seen her, other than to put as much distance between herself and Mary Wardwell as quickly as possible. The street was deserted anyway. It wasn’t as if she were breaking witch law. 

Unsure of why she had this magnetism, a certain...energy, one that made it hard to ignore her sensuality, Zelda just chalked it up to a mixture of dislike and...attraction. Those together never boded well; most often resulting in tension, and Mary Wardwell seemed to be sparking it, almost.  It wasn’t a shameful thing; being attracted to somebody. It just- it had to be somebody Zelda couldn’t stand. Somebody who was most definitely hiding something. Something Zelda might not have even been able to comprehend if she tried. 

Sabdina was the only one home when she materialised in the parlour– moping about something or other (a mortal, or losing best boy, Zelda wasn’t sure). The girl was out more often than not as of late, split between the academy and mortal school along with whatever mischief she got up to, so Zelda was thankful to have her within sight. 

“What are those?” She wasn’t, however, thankful for her innate curiosity that bordered on nosiness. The other Spellman’s wouldn’t have chanced a second glance at what was in her hands. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be studying? I’m sure there’s plenty you need to catch up on with how little you’re at the academy.”

Sabrina seemed to ignore her, intrigued. “Lilith?” 

“I’m sure you’re familiar with her,” Her tone was dripping with sarcasm, occupied by her movements away from the parlour and further into the house.

“Of course. Why do you have them?” 

“Well...the High Priest is putting on a play, and he’s asked me to co-direct.” Her niece’s eyebrows furrowed at that, resenting any involvement she had with Faustus no doubt. “They’re for research.” 

“Didn’t we do this story last year?” Her nose scrunched up in a mixture of confusion and indignation. 

“And we’ll watch it as if we’re seeing it for the first time.” That was one of the things Sabrina needed to brush up on: the idea of duty. What one ought to do. 

Zelda didn’t think she’d get it anytime soon, despite her conditioning, all the more apparent by the way she rolled her eyes and stalked off, Salem following behind.

-

_ Novalis tells the story of a medieval troubadour who sees a little blue flower in a dream. Afterward he longs to see the blue flower in ‘real life’. “I can’t get rid of the idea,” he says. “It haunts me.”  _

-

Sometimes, Zelda walked to the Academy simply because she could. She would take the route through the forest, listening to the wind through the trees and taking in the scenery. It was best an hour or so before midday. Where there was a certain slant of light streaming through branches, hitting at just the right angle where it wasn’t overbearing, nor was it too low that the winter cold was unforgiving.

Nature was a thing to marvel at. Perhaps the pagans had it right. _No_ , what a ridiculous thought. Still, she rejoiced in the calm that washed over her, senses touched by air and earth, water lingering from fresh rain that morning, fire to come when she reached the warmth of indoors. 

It gave her time to think without the restrictive walls of the mortuary, or the thick stone of the Academy. 

Here, she felt like a bird in flight. Like a traveller, journeying somewhere with only a path of opportunities before them. It was where her thoughts were at their freest. Where she could simply be within nature and be both present, and up in the trees all at once. If anywhere embodied free will; Zelda thought it would be a forest.

Wild, the option of any path; carved out or shrouded by shrubbery. A source of darkness, the kind of darkness that magic was drawn to. It was like another realm in itself. A tenth circle. 

The Academy always felt a little duller after those particular walks. But that was the path she’d chosen. One of success. And it was one she was most dedicated to. 

“Did you walk here?” Was the first thing Faustus greeted her with when she reached his office, standing near the fire with a glass of scotch in his hand. 

“Yes, why?” Smoothing down her coat and looking for clues of mud or snow, Zelda tried to straighten herself out. There were no evident signs of dirt or nature on her person.

“Your cheeks are a little red.” He said it as if he resented seeing evidence of life within her.

“It’s the cold.” 

He’d already moved on. Picking up the script on his desk, he turned to her with a wooden smile. “I think we ought to get working on this, don’t you? Rehearsals will be held in the Desecrated Church.”

As she took a seat opposite his desk, his smile turned pleased. “Oh, and Zelda, you might want to use your magic to get here from now on. Save us some time.”

All she could do was nod, curtly, and pick up her version of the script.

Directing came easily to her. It was all about vision. Seeing your vision and implementing it on a stage.

It was also about power. Having the means to tell others what to do, but more than that, to place subtleties in the play without controlling the story. 

It wasn’t that of a power of a writer; who could shape and mold a world, dictate words and change history. No, it was something else entirely. It was about sight, really. If one looked closely enough, they could see the details in the movements, the placements—things that might oppose the words altogether. 

Zelda did as much as she could with what she was given. Namely, there wasn’t much moving room. Much flexibility offered. Faustus was thorough in his work, in his control and dictation. He’d included stage directions and filled in blanks where Zelda might’ve had some artistic control. He had his mark on this play, had the words clutched in his grasp, unyielding. 

She would still slip into gaps she’d make with her own hammer. Chipping away at the frameworks until there was leeway. And she’d do it in a way that didn’t alert Faustus of her break-in. 

Like: the way Lilith would stand. The way her chin would be set in pride and strength, and her movements sure.

They were small allowances, but in a play like this one; they’d mean a lot. 

It took a lot out of her time, directing the play. During the day, she put together this scene of a warped story about Lilith, with a sense of hopelessness to her character. And at night she skimmed through pages of power and Free Will, of hope. 

After a while; Zelda began to think that the dream was merely as a result of her reading Faustus’s interpretation. It must’ve ignited something within her, a recognition, resonating with the side of Lilith he’d missed out for his narrative. Perhaps it was a plea not to forget. 

With this, she slackened the reigns on her searching, but allowed herself a moment of thought, where she vowed not to forget. Almost like a prayer, yet not quite. 

That was until she’d read an account, a personal experience involving a dream. She’d found it in the midst of dream interpretations. It wasn’t directly linked to the Mother of Demons; not the way Zelda’s was, but in it, a woman sought delphiniums. When she awoke; this nagging feeling to find and see one for herself, she only found loose ends. There seemed to be a shortage. 

Zelda wondered if that would happen to her if she sought them...like they’d dried up: as if she were asking too much, taking from Lilith - more than what was offered. 

For a daunting moment, Zelda realised she’d thought more about Lilith in the past few days than she had the Dark Lord—the being she was meant to worship.

Still, the image of a delphinium in her palm persisted.

It was with that thought that she went into the last few rehearsals for the play from a more...objective standpoint. Biases forgotten, and devotion to the Dark Lord at the forefront of her mind. Banishing all thoughts of blue, and instead occupying her mind with red. 

-

The play, in the end, was a success with the coven. Sabrina and Nicholas truly were a striking pair, with enough chemistry between them that for a second she was sure the audience forgot they were merely watching a reenactment. Her directions had worked, and Faustus seemed pleased, if not astonished by the thrall of it all.

Zelda herself allowed a moment of pride. She _had_ worked rather hard on this, and it’d paid off.

What didn’t sit right with her, was Mary Wardwell dancing about in the shadows, mostly hidden at the back of the church. She’d only seen her briefly, but it was enough to get her hackles raised. 

Sitting patiently, she waited until there was a moment to slip out. For the curtain to draw and the coven to be occupied by applause. She’d muttered to Hilda about needing a cigarette and seeing it enacted enough times to be able to recite it herself. 

Mary was staring into the distance when she left the church, the cold hitting her rather suddenly, shoulders rising and falling where her breathing was almost heavy. It drifted up in wisps of white, curling and contorting in the air.

“What are you doing here?” The gravel made a scraping sound that almost echoed in the silence—more noticeable when contrasted to the noise inside—as she stopped abruptly. 

Mary seemed almost taken aback, which– Zelda didn’t think she’d ever caught her when she wasn’t so seamlessly put together.

“Is that the only question you can ask?” There was a sort of resignation about her. She didn’t have nearly as much bite in her voice, mirth in her eyes. They were almost sad. Holding something deep and ineffable. Like she knew the stars, and subsequently, when each of them would fade out of existence. 

“Perhaps.” Leaning against the wall just behind her, feeling less like a heated showdown from the weight of the evening and the change in Mary’s disposition, she pulled out a cigarette and lit it with a steady hand covering the tip. “Did you come to see the play?”

Mary simply nodded, loose strands of hair moving with an uptake in breeze, like drops of snow or petals plucked from a flower. “Sabrina mentioned she was playing a part.”

“Thank Satan. The witch who originally had the role was tragic.” She sucked in sharply, cheeks hollowing around the cigarette. “And not the good kind.” 

There was a brief moment of silence, with only the sound of Zelda inhaling and exhaling, smoke drifting soundlessly into the air. A round of applause came from inside, and if Zelda hadn’t directed the play, she might’ve felt like she was missing out on something. 

The silence was unnerving and unfamiliar. Not so unfamiliar to Zelda herself, but with the presence of Mary Wardwell, who, during all of their encounters, no matter how brief, found ways to choke the silence with sharp one liners and witty retorts. 

“What did you think?” She asked, to force some semblance of normality. It was odd that she was seeking conversation, but it somehow felt like the right thing to do. Perhaps Sabrina was slipping into her morale with mortal ideas. 

“The stage directions were good,” Mary offered up, unconvincing. Zelda narrowed her eyes, not in ridicule, but thought. “So were the actors, especially Sabrina. They were moving.” 

“Which really means the writing was bloody awful.” 

For a second time that evening, Mary looked surprised. Eyes conveying more than she’d ever seen them convey. It felt like a moment Zelda wasn’t supposed to see. Like something private. Something to be kept hidden, covered and protected. 

“Faustus couldn’t interpret any female figure in the Satanic Bible without practically destroying her very essence.” She shocked even herself a little for outwardly condemning him to somebody she didn’t trust, and especially didn’t trust wasn’t working with him. This was her _High Priest_. 

Avoiding what she was sure were either intrigued, stunned or _deep_ eyes, profoundly blue, Zelda looked to the moon. At the way it seemed to shine with its own intrinsic light. She longed for the hare moon. To bask in its glow. 

“You believe he destroyed Lilith’s essence?” She questioned, curious.

“I think anybody who knows the slightest bit about her story would recognise that.” It sounded almost patronising, and Mary Wardwell’s eyebrows were curving upwards. “It worries me, for the future of our coven.” 

“How do you mean?” 

“What he expects from the witches. How, if he expects Lilith—the first ever witch to deny a place of subservience—to become this passive, helpless creature, then surely he’d...” Trailing off, she remembered who she was speaking to. Remembered herself. “I’ve said too much.”

Clearing her throat, she finished off her cigarette with a deep drag. Mary watched her, something in her eyes that wasn’t just  _blue_. Nor vulnerable. It looked a little bit like clarity. 

“He’s just a man, Zelda,” She reminded, thwarting her exhale. The smoke got caught in her throat, burning, and she was afraid she was going to cough. Make a fool of herself. Instead, she slowly exhaled again and blinked back the stinging in her eyes. 

“He’s the High Priest.” Snuffing her cigarette out on the wall, grounding the thing almost violently, watching the ash crumble and fall to the ground like snow, she sighed.

“Still,” Mary shrugged, pitiful smile on her face, like she knew something Zelda didn’t. “Just a man.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this addition!  
> feedback/opinions is always appreciated :)


	3. the romance of seeking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A hand reached down to help her up, and Zelda took it mindlessly, noticing a flash of blue as she stood upright and felt a stem against her palm between them. 
> 
> The flowers alerted her, like a hound catching the scent of blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> brief heterosexual activity mentioned, meh I know. this kinda follows canon mostly, obviously despite the madam spellman scenes. although there’s some deviances - especially with Zelda’s thoughts towards Faustus I think (she’s less taken by him I suppose). and there might be more canon divergence as we go along. It’s just the timeline really that it follows.

_ “For who would be so concerned about a flower in this world? And I’ve never heard of anyone being in love with a flower.”  _

-

February came with a wave of fresh snow. Zelda had always rather liked February’s, the last month of cold before spring started to seep in and taint Greendale with warmth. They did have a late winter, living so far east, but March began to warm slowly, melting away the ice and replacing it with fresh grass and the beginnings of flora peaking through the soil. 

Lately, she found herself almost craving the warmth. The fire in the hearth just wasn’t enough– she wanted something raw. Something like the beating sun. What’s more, hellfire. 

It was a foolish thought, really, craving to touch Hell, but hadn’t every witch at least once in their life? Zelda had enough times before. 

This, however, was a craving to be consumed by blue flames and walk through to the other side, unscathed—at least, not completely scorched. 

Perhaps, instead, she craved passion. 

It was a fitting time, truly. Despite how she’d put a halt to her and Faustus’ physical relationship until a decision was made on their status, Lupercalia was just around the corner, and she’d never been one to deny the whims of lust. 

He might not have matched hellfire, but the sex was fine, if not good at times, and Zelda was trying to establish a place by his side, at the head of the coven. What was more of a turn on than the prospect of power? 

So, she indulged him. 

The matching process went well and Sabrina had secured that young Nicholas Scratch. Zelda gave her a little talk about how sex was not something to be shameful of or shy away from, and that Lupercalia was the best time to commit to such a thing. Everybody in the house sans herself and Ambrose seemed to become a flustered mess whenever anything alluding to sex was brought up. It was amusing, truly, to see a person blush at the prospect of carnality. 

She supposed inexperience would do that to a person, though, Zelda couldn’t remember herself being such a way. Perhaps it’d been too many centuries to recall. 

As the festivities continued, Sabrina and Hilda drifted to the back of her mind and she shifted her focus. Ambrose, as the recently appointed best boy, directed everybody through the steps. Behind the scenes, herself and Faustus arranged everything, a sort of bureau that went behind the gimmicks of it all. 

It was a nice break from dealing with exorcisms and witches coming back from the dead to haunt the town. It allowed Zelda to relax, to give into the festivity and simply move with the flow of things. 

That’s why, when Faustus held up the spare basket, feigned shock, she allowed it all to happen. Allowed Faustus to take her hand and lead her through the forest to a secluded spot on the path allocated, beneath a tree. 

Neither of them were concerned with holding off until the next step. Still, it’d been a while since they’d been together, so the pace set was slower than what might’ve been considered usual. 

She tried to give in to passion. To place herself in the palm of desire and allow her overactive mind to quell and her body to take control, but, Zelda remained alert. Alert of something that was missing. And all she could think of was that she wanted to be touched by the colour blue. 

It was a terrifying thought. Craving a colour. 

Instead, she convinced herself it was spontaneity that she was missing. 

With a rough palm at her clavicle, Zelda opened her eyes to look at the sky– too dark to be considered anything but black, the tree next to them gnarled and daunting.

When Faustus had gotten impatient with the static foreplay, Zelda rolled onto her stomach so she could at least seek some colour, instead of emptiness. 

The grass was a dark green against her fingertips, just beside the beige blanket they were resting on. It flickered, the colour, as Father Blackwood’s shadow moved, mouth at her neck now. It was always a sensitive spot for her, so she chased the thrill– retreating, fading, as he moved away as if he somehow knew it was a source of pleasure that he fancied withholding.

The chill of the night brushed her lower back as he ventured under her blouse, and Zelda felt a bulge against her thigh. He’d always been rather quick to excite. 

Just as he reached to remove her bra, Zelda’s perception of green blurred, and it was as if, there, nestled in the grass, was a blue flower. Blinking, she focused harder on the spot, just out of reach of the light. 

“Wait-“ Zelda shifted so Faustus’ hands slipped down to her abdomen. As he went to reach upwards again, she squirmed. “Faustus.”

Craning her neck, she met frustrated eyes, inky black in the darkness. “What?” Zelda could never quite pinpoint the colour. They seemed to shift depending on his mood. 

Turning back, the space was empty. 

“Did you see that?” She hushed, removing Faustus’s hands from out beneath her shirt so she could sit in the slightest, peering out over the grass. 

“See what?”

Maybe it’d been picked up by the wind, although Zelda couldn’t remember an uptake. 

“The blue flower,” She pointed in the general direction it’d been, like grasping at the tendrils of a dream.

“You’re stopping to ask about a flower?” He deadpanned, lips twitching into an irritated frown. 

Perhaps she was going insane. “You’re right. Never mind.” 

He hurried to continue, pressing Zelda into the blanket as she tried to settle, but couldn’t quite stop glancing at the grass. He was quick to reach for her skirt, the cold nipping at the back of her thighs now. It made goosebumps rise, the winter seeping into her bones, turning her fingers stiff.

Somewhere off in the distance, a wolf howled, a pained cry that sent a bolt of fear up her spine, mingled with sorrow. 

Their movement froze—or rather, his movement—stilling with the interruption that usurped the air. 

“There aren’t any wolves in Greendale,” Zelda muttered, sitting back on her heels as Faustus stood and glanced through the trees as if the wolf were only a few feet away. 

“We should gather the coven,” He said, already straightening his clothes and packing up their basket.   
  
She tried to remain unshaken, thoughts lingering on the flower to distract herself of any sort of disruption that could pose a threat to all of them. Most of the coven were more concerned about the disrupted festivities.   


Seeking out both Ambrose and Sabrina, she checked up on them and made sure they had plans to get home safely. The cousins shared a look, then glanced at their respective partners, before nodding swiftly. Zelda just raised her brow, sharing a smile with the older of the two.   


They escorted most of the witches and warlocks back to the academy whilst Sabrina and Nicholas Scratch headed to the mortuary, and Zelda found herself in Faustus’ office, finishing what had been started. 

Zelda returned home late that night, sighing in relief at the thought of slipping into bed. She could still feel the press of the desk against the front of her thighs.

Turning on the fire and pouring a cup of tea, Zelda mulled over the night with careful contemplation. Most of her thoughts were reserved for the flower. Whether or not it was real. Simply a blip in her imagination. A symbol, like her dreams. It’d be unwise to venture out so soon after hearing a wolf, in search of it. She was sure a few warlocks would search the forest in the morning– evidence of any beast and it’d most likely be killed on sight.

With the prospect of somehow finding the flower, she ventured to bed with her book on Lilith, and drifted off with it resting against her chest. 

-

The grass crunched beneath her boots, frozen. It seemed to shimmer, almost like the translucent forest in her dream.

Zelda felt a little apprehensive, the memory of the howling wolf at the back of her mind as she stayed vigilant and looked out for any movement. The trees stood like sentients, watching over her. Or perhaps they were merely places for things to lurk and hide. 

Taking the path Faustus and herself had taken the night before, she watched her step, avoiding stray branches. She remembered the spot because of the shape of the tree just next to them, curved and almost reaching for anybody that passed by. The tree was just the same as the night before, if not more daunting now that she was alone. 

Zelda dropped to her knees, leafing through the shrubbery with an urgency. Truthfully, she was both cold and uneasy; her breath quick clouds that dissolved as fast as they touched the air. The ground had become less icy the further she’d walked, like a portal to hell itself resided in the centre, warming everything in close proximity, so her knees were dry.

The grass protected her from most of the dirt, but as she dug further into the soil, searching for any hint of a blue flower, her hands turned muddied, nails brown.

With a start, they stilled. She heard a quiet hum, feminine. For a second, she almost thought it was the forest. The wind, loose and free, curving around the trees and lulling through the leaves.

No, there was a quiet, almost inaudible, movement of footsteps. 

Quickly, she whipped her head around to see a figure slinking through the trees, fluid, familiar. 

Squinting, she recognised Mary Wardwell, wandering through the grass. Her feet avoided the barren trail—slashed and burnt, infertile—and waded through plants, soil, grass that went up to her ankles. It seemed almost disorderly. Like she was trying to get closer to life and away from waste. 

She was choosing her own path, Zelda noted, nearing her.

Her eyes blinked slowly as they fell on Zelda, owllike. They watched each other for a moment, calculating, blank. Mary’s cheekbones seemed somehow more prominent from her angle on the ground, the moon overhead. 

“Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m here?” She spoke finally, voice laced with that same forced innocence. Soon enough, Zelda would believe it authentic. 

“Well...this is a public space.” Zelda brushed her hands together, muttering a spell to rid herself of the dirt. 

“The bookstore wasn’t?” A sly grin pulled at her red lips, facade dropped. “What are  _you_ doing here?” 

Narrowing her eyes, she ignored the jibe. 

“I’m looking for something I dropped,” Glancing back to the floor, she decided it was futile. Foolish, that she’d come looking for it. 

“An exciting night, I suppose?” 

Zelda ignored her, not missing the cheeky smile or suggestive brows. Instead, she brushed down her dress, removing flecks of dirt but not moving to rise. It felt like a dismissal. 

“I needed river water for a spell,” Mary offered despite her silence. She had a bottle clasped behind her back along with some sort of flower if the stem poking out beside her hip was any indicator. 

Considering the spells that required river water, Zelda deduced it was likely to be for protection. Mary must’ve sensed the recognition in her features and shrugged, “You never know what to expect being a lone witch, straying from the pack.” She felt a tinge of sympathy, before ridding herself of that idea altogether. 

Feeling her legs begin to stiffen, she shifted to stand. “Here.” A hand reached down to help her up, and Zelda took it mindlessly, noticing a flash of blue as she stood upright and felt a stem against her palm between them. 

The flowers alerted her, like a hound catching the scent of blood.

“Where did you get those?” Zelda questioned, rushed and alert; tinged with suspicion or accusation or both. 

“These old things?” She flicked a stem, offhanded, “I grow them. For protection.”

Running her fingers over the petals delicately, she turned one over in her palm, watching Zelda through her lashes. 

“They’re a pretty little blue, aren’t they?” Perhaps she meant to smile, but it came off as a catlike grin. 

“I suppose,” Zelda shrugged, trying not to stare at them for too long. At the way they were held in her grasp; both delicate and firm. Feigning indifference. 

“I could pick some for you, if you’d like?” Mary offered, shoulder coming to rest against a tree. The one that curled, grasping at the empty space just above their heads.

“No, that’s not necessary.” Perhaps it was stupid to decline. Here was an offer to hand over the very flower she was just searching for, almost desperate. 

It...something was so very off about it. It could’ve been a mere coincidence, but Zelda wouldn’t believe that for a second. 

Perhaps it was a warning. To stay away. Maybe it was a sign to stay close. It could’ve meant a number of things.

Zelda hated the taste of it.

“I should be leaving.” With a hurried flare, she spun on her heel and made it just two steps before fingers encircled her wrist, drawing her back. The grip was hot, burning. At her glare, the hand retreated, raising in mock surrender. 

Mary’s breath was white against the dark, like moonlight, but closer. Not quite tangible, but almost close enough to be felt.

Blue eyes watched her carefully, before they sparked, demon-like. “You’re uptight, you know?” 

Zelda blinked, jaw tightening. “Excuse me?” 

Chuckling lightly, Ms. Wardwell reached up to touch the branch that was stretching towards them. Her finger curled around one of the diverging twigs, snapping it off and letting it fall to the ground. 

“You’re so high strung and reserved all the time. I can practically feel the control oozing from you,” She leaned closer, holding a flower up to her head as if to see what it’d look like entwined with her hair.

Zelda tried to form a retort. To protest the silly accusation, or bat her hand away, but she couldn’t find the words, nor the will. 

“You need to loosen up,” Brushing the same hand over her shoulder, the petals of a delphinium following behind it, she smirked again. 

“I think I’m fine, thank you.” Zelda moved this time, shoulder arching away from the touch. 

It seemed to be what Mary was looking for, a pointed look on her face. “Don’t you see my point?”

Being around for a good few centuries, Zelda liked to think she knew herself pretty well. She liked to stick to the book, yes. She valued rules and order with just the right amount of chaos. She craved power, had ambition enough to find it, and passion seemed to fuel her magic and soul better than the mundanity of life in Greendale. 

That being said, Zelda was a family woman. She might’ve thrived in travel and adrenaline, but what came before that was the people she loved. 

Zelda’s magic was fuelled plenty by the fierce protectiveness she had for her family. And along with that, came a certain apprehension to keep them close. Sabrina especially. Zelda couldn’t slip or falter when she had a teenage witch to lookout for. Mary Wardwell was the epitome of a slip or falter; entirely untrustworthy. 

If that made her uptight– she’d happily take the title. 

“What, and you want me to—as you put it— _loosen up_ , with  _you_?” Zelda scoffed, shaking her head as she tapped her fingers against her hip where her hand rested.

“When you put it like that,” Quirking her eyebrows, her smirk widened, sacrilegious .

Zelda rolled her eyes to avoid lingering there. “Don’t be so crude” 

“Sweet Lucifer,” The words lilted, curling around her tongue, almost purred. “I bet you don’t even relax when you’re having sex.” 

Stepping closer, Zelda met the movement by stepping back. With two more subtle steps, she felt the bark of a tree press into her lower back and sucked in a sharp breath. 

Looking between their bodies, some space between them still, Mary pursed her lips. “You probably do it standing up. Stiff like a tree.” 

The wink seemed to break the trance, and Zelda stood upright, moving closer until she could feel hot breath against her cheek, trying to regain control but only losing more in the process. “This is entirely inappropriate,” She argued, though it didn’t come out nearly as strong as she’d hoped it would. 

“I didn’t know you were such a prude, Zelda,” Mary frowned, laced with mock disappointment. “It is Lupercalia after all.”

Despite her words, she leant backwards, tilting her head as if to predict Zelda’s next move. 

“You’re Sabrina’s  _teacher_ ,” She reminded, eyes glancing down to the flowers in her hand. They’d flattened just slightly, forgotten in her grasp.

“I didn’t know you had reservations about that kind of thing. I mean, isn’t Father Blackwood technically Sabrina’s principle?”

“You know  nothing about that,” She hissed, stepping forwards again until they were almost nose to nose. Twin rivers flashed with part danger, part amusement. 

For a second, Zelda faltered, breath exhaling shakily. 

“Don’t I?” She said, cryptic. 

Mary Wardwell was an enigma. A puzzling paradox of mysteries tied together to form this image of a witch that didn’t quite make sense; incomprehensible. Her eyes held only knowledge, this deep grasp of understanding. 

Nights herald shrieked, a low hoot that seized the silence. 

Zelda swallowed her unease, but remained guarded. “It’s different,” She spoke haughtily. “For some reason, Sabrina admires you.”

Mary’s eyes lit, like they reflected the moon. “You’d go there if she didn’t?” They were certainly glancing at her lips now, not even the darkness could hide that. 

With a shake of her head, Zelda turned on the spot. Her hair must’ve brushed past Mary, a slight tug of resistance. “We’re not having this conversation.” She began walking away, assured in her footsteps. 

“We  _definitely_ are,” The witch cackled, what might’ve been mistaken for a strange noise in the darkness. 

Zelda glanced back to see the flowers drooping at her knee as she watched her leave. 

“Enjoy the rest of Lupercalia,” She shouted after her, teasing, with a slow wave to go along with it- each finger moving individually. It was enough to get her to turn away and walk the short distance back to the mortuary, fearing the heat inside would be too much. 

Zelda might’ve forgotten what she’d gone to the forest for if Mary hadn’t been holding the item in question. 

-

The wolf ordeal was resolved quicker than Zelda would’ve thought. It was a tragic story, really, but something that needed to be done. 

The last stage of Lupercalia was carried out, and Zelda hated to admit it, but Mary had burrowed her way into her psyche with seductive words and a few searing touches, to the point of Zelda picturing her with Faustus between her legs. Which– it wasn’t as if she’d never fantasised about somebody else whilst having sex, but usually she’d just go for what her body wanted— so long as they wanted her back (that wasn’t usually a problem; disinterest, after all, was quite a turn off). Going after what she wanted didn’t feel like an option this time. 

And Zelda despised that it was Mary she wanted. The woman was not only untrustworthy and potentially dangerous, but also infuriating to a ridiculous degree. She tried to calm the self hatred by reasoning that Mary had put many advances forwards, and she was an attractive woman; only a fool wouldn’t find themselves drawn to her. 

It was all a bit of a complicated mess. One that was, regrettably, getting her off, even a few days after Lupercalia. 

“Praise Satan.” Faustus groaned, rolling off her, chest rising and falling as he laid beside her for a few beats. 

“Praise Satan, indeed.” Zelda parroted, lungs aching for smoke. Her fingers curled around a phantom cigarette. 

Faustus’ office had never felt so cold. The fireplace beside her was empty, letting in a chill, leaving the room doused in dull light. There was a single candle lit near a mirror on the wall, and Zelda watched as Faustus walked towards it, slicking back his hair as he began to dress. 

Slipping into her dress, she left it unzipped as she walked over to her bag, leaning a palm against the desk as she rummaged through to find her Marlboros. With a sigh, she placed one in her ring holder and lit it, resting against the oak. Faustus frowned at her through the mirror but didn’t say anything. The candle light flickered across his features, face half covered in shadows. 

As he was buttoning up his shirt and draping a tie around his neck, he spoke, “I think we should get married.” 

Zelda appraised him, taking a calculated drag, eyes narrowing. Cigarette smoke drifted in front of her line of sight to paint a blurred picture as he turned towards her, candle light obscured. “Was that a proposal?” 

Nearing her, he gestured towards his tie. Zelda left her cigarette hanging from her lips as she took hold of it, lining it up with a careful eye. He rocked on his heels as she crossed it over, pinched it between her fingers and looped, dragging it over her thumb before looping it back over and creating a knot. She cinched it with a tug, pulling forcefully until it rested against his neck, like tying a noose. 

The High Priest’s eyes flashed, nostrils flaring ever so slightly, but she offered up a polite smile and smoothed down his collar. 

Stepping back, she reached for her cigarette again and puffed out a cloud of smoke. 

“It was a proposal.” With a hand on her shoulder, he urged her to turn, taking her zip between his fingers and sliding it up her back much in the same way she had his tie. Her shoulders pulled back at the force, like he’d been tying a corset. 

“So?” He looked impatient as she turned back, a hand resting against his hip. 

“Let me consider it.” 

-

The next time she saw Mary Wardwell, she took her wrist in her hand and placed a bag of seeds right in the centre of her palm. At Zelda’s quirked brow, she flashed her teeth. 

“They’re enchanted, so they’ll grow quicker.”

Sabrina had asked her over for help with something or other (Zelda had stopped listening once she’d realised it wasn’t life threatening). She’d arrived home later than usual once again, just after Faustus’ proposal. Hilda was bumbling about in the kitchen and Sabrina had launched straight away into a plea that her favourite teacher could come over.

She was quite certain there was some sort of protocol in the mortal world for teachers visiting students houses, especially so late. She supposed that didn’t matter when said teacher was  _supposedly_ looking out for the student, her fathers dying wish, and they were all witches. 

She’d tried to stay out of their way, not trusting that Mary wouldn’t try something in front of her niece, but when Sabrina rushed upstairs, yelling about a book, the witch cornered her in the parlour. 

Zelda didn’t quite know whether to feel agitation at the presumptuous gesture, or warmed by the sentiment. 

Protection? They were nothing but blue flowers (if Zelda had learnt the colloquialisms of dutch, she might’ve known that  _dat zijn maar blauwe bloempjes_ meant a pack of bald-faced lies).

Mary’s fingers lingered on her wrist for a few seconds, her thumb tracing over her vein before retreating. 

“Thank you,” She said warily, eyeing her as she sipped at the muscle relaxing tea Hilda had brewed (having enough sex in an office would cause some muscle pain, surprisingly).

“It’s no problem,” She smiled wryly, not making an effort to put anymore space between them. Zelda didn’t think she’d seen her genuinely smile once. 

“Where did you get them?” Zelda questioned, fist closing over the bag as if she feared Mary would snatch them back. 

Blue eyes glimmered, knowing. She despised their clarity. There was nothing harder to decipher in a person than simple clarity. 

“Zelds, you said you had some news?” Hilda came bumbling in with a smile and a plate of biscuits, faltering a little at their proximity. Mary slowly stepped back, ducking her head. 

“That can wait for later,” She brushed off, turning towards the fire. Zelda could feel two sets of eyes on her, and felt that same itch to distract herself with a cigarette. The seeds felt heavy in her palm. “Where’s Sabrina? I’m sure Ms. Wardwell is desperate to get home.” 

Zelda turned to see Hilda sharing a look with Mary, offering her a treat. The witch took one, watching Zelda as she took a slow bite. 

Lashes fluttering, she licked her lips to pick up any stray crumbs and made an appreciative noise. “Simply  _decadent_ , Hilda,” She said, though her eyes didn’t leave Zelda. 

Flushing under the praise, Hilda stumbled out a thanks, holding out the tray to offer another. Mary’s polite decline was interrupted by Sabrina bouncing into the room, ushering Ms. Wardwell into the kitchen and stealing her attention with some problem she probably could’ve come to her aunts about. 

“So, the news?” Hilda pushed, taking one of the biscuits as she sat on the sofa. 

“I believe you wanted to tell me something about that boss of yours. Mine can wait.” 

Slipping into bed that evening, Zelda noticed the moon peeking through her curtains. She’d tried to sleep, but it’s persistent glow almost felt as if she was being watched, and there was a distinct nagging at the back of her mind. A nagging for blue.

Out of impulse, she searched through her bedside drawer and retrieved the bag of seeds she’d tucked gently away. They slipped through her fingers in the translucent bag, a shimmering, dark blue that almost seemed to have a light source of its own. Perhaps that was just the moon reflecting on the material. 

Quietly, Zelda crept down the stairs, avoiding the parts of the floor that creaked, heading to the greenhouse. Retrieving an empty pot, she scooped up some soil Hilda had bagged up from the forest and buried the seeds with almost an urgency. A watering can stood on the side, and she poured some of the water over the fresh soil and watched it seep through, sucked up like a demon into an Acheron. 

She stayed to watch over the pot for a few minutes, worried they’d disappear by morning. She’d never felt so reluctant to leave the dingy, green room. 

That night, Zelda dreamt of a river. This time, her foot took a hesitant dip into it’s waters. Warm, the other side beckoned her. Slowly, her skin melted, pooling into the river as if she were intertwining with its current. Becoming one with it. 

Submerged in the hot spring, she saw blue flowers on the other side, littered across the bank. They shrieked, like owls, calling out for her.

As she made to wade closer, her feet grew heavy. The river width stretched the more she exerted herself to swim, and the flowers seemed to move further and further away from her grasp. Slowly she sunk deeper into the waters, like quicksand. 

The trees around her were translucent and still, whispering between themselves. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I only finished part 4 yesterday because I was dragging it out, but does anyone else feel like Mary Wardwell’s story was still kinda open ended?? I still don’t really get her thought processes in the actual show, or understand her motives etc. Maybe I’m dumb. I think there could’ve been more resolution there.
> 
> Let me know what you thought of this chapter!


	4. a dance underway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re not a lady of mediocrity, are you Zelda?” Picking up a black and white picture of Zelda only a couple of centuries old, she brushed a finger around the frame. She watched her carefully place the picture back, before moving onto the next. 
> 
> “And what can you say about mediocrity? Aren’t you a high school civics teacher?”
> 
> That had her turning her attention back to her, a mischievous smile, “I think you know there’s much more to me than that.” 
> 
> “Maybe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi :) hope you guys are okay! I’m not really sure if this is going to be exactly 8 chapters but it’ll be around that mark. Enjoy!

_ We were dancing the way people dance when they are telling each other how they want to make love. Afterwards it was time for rough magic.  _

-

Smoothing out the creases in her dress, Zelda inhaled sharply. Her reflection glimmered, like an astral projection when the psychopomps start to gather. Perhaps it was because her eyes were unfocused, flitting between the details of her makeup (dark eye shadow, red lips, dark blush) the necklace at her clavicle, the dark maroon of her dress and the way her hair lay against her shoulders. 

The engagement was common knowledge around the Academy by now. Zelda had found herself putting more effort into her presentation; what with all the scrutiny, mostly polite congratulations to her face and judgemental looks behind her back. It was likely fuelled by jealousy– Zelda Spellman, sister of the last High Priest, soon to be wife of the next. 

Zelda could taste the power on the tip of her tongue. Just out of reach. 

Within a few days, the anti-Pope would be travelling to Greendale to marry them. Zelda could hardly contain her excitement, the  _ anti-Pope_. Most witches never had the (dis)honour of seeing him in person, let alone having him officiate their marriage. It could only mean great things. 

That didn’t stop the quiet nag at the back of her mind that something was wrong. That her dreams, seeking out rivers, flowers for protection, Lilith– that it was all some sort of herald. A forewarning. 

Speculation would do her no good. Neither would souring what was to be an amazing opportunity...so Zelda smiled at her reflection, soothing the frown lines and replacing them with subtle crinkles at her eyes. 

Breakfast was much like the conflict in her mind. The skeptic, the overjoyed, the mediator between them. 

Sabrina sat violently cutting up her food with a frown tugging at her lips. “Why would you marry him?” It was petulant, filled with childish resentment and naivety.

Zelda simply sighed, reaching for her cigarette holder, letting it rest in her palm– just the weight of it grounding enough. 

“You don’t even love him.” 

“What does love have to do with marriage?” Zelda rolled her eyes, placing her hands on the table as if preparing to admonish her.

The teenager shot her an incredulous look, hands, brandished with knife and fork, rising in the air, “ _ Everything. _ ”

“Hardly, Sabrina,” She scoffed, finally reaching for her pocket and pulling out a cigarette. Hilda gave her a mildly displeased look (she’d always disapproved of smoking at the table) but kept her lips sealed. “You’re young, you wouldn’t understand.” 

She’d forgone her newspaper that morning, instead revelling in what was to be only a handful of meals at the family table before she would be whisked away to live with Faustus. Perhaps, without the paper between them, Sabrina became more critical. Something about the eye contact, or the lack of a dismissal Zelda usually portrayed when she placed the paper before her, signalling the end of a conversation. 

Sabrina frowned, chewing on her bacon unceremoniously; as if it were Faustus’ ring finger. “You don’t even trust him.” 

“All the more reason to keep him close.” 

The girl huffed, finally understanding when they’d reached an impasse. 

“I think it’ll be great,” Hilda cut in, voice light and airy but hesitant. “Your Aunt married to the  _ High Priest_. Isn’t that lovely?” 

“Can we call him Uncle Blackwood from now on?” Ambrose spoke up, trying to hold in a laugh. 

“Oh, stop it, Ambrose,” Zelda reprimanded as Hilda whacked him on the back of the head, the former holding back her amusement at his dramatic reaction. 

It lessened the tension ever so slightly, Sabrina grasping at her anger but eventually smiling as Ambrose pretended to gag, Zelda feigning ignorance, her own smirk tugging at her lips. 

A sudden sense of nostalgia washed over her. Nostalgia for something she was experiencing. The prospect of not sitting at the breakfast table every morning with her family. Of smoking on the porch to appease Hilda as she made dinner, of telling Sabrina off for something or another and watching as Ambrose fought between being honest with his aunties and protecting his cousin. She wasn’t losing them- not by a long shot, but there was to be a loss. A loss of time. 

Zelda cut into her eggs to swallow the pain tugging at her chest, letting her hair cover her face as she blinked back tears. 

How foolish. 

She was getting married soon, there was only room for joy.

Before she left that morning, she took a trip to the greenhouse. The pot she’d left behind was now home to a small sprout of green, just on top of the soil. Zelda hummed to it as she poured water, smoothing over the little thing gently. If Hilda could see her she’d probably crawl to the cain pit herself.

-

Her heels clacked against the floor as she made her way through the Academy, looking up at the towering statue of the Dark Lord in the centre. His eyes seemed to follow her as she walked.

Making her way into the library, she kept her chin raised high, ignoring the steady gazes of anybody she passed by, like the statue watching her. It was a nice break when she walked by Nicholas Scratch, who smiled warmly in her direction with no hint of ridicule or curiosity. 

Today, Zelda would search for a book on herbology and the symbolism of flowers. The library felt heavy and dark, a fifth of the weight and darkness felt when stood near the Book of the Beast. There were books of ancient magic here. Dark magic. Areas of the library restricted under lock and key—it was for the best, really, with teenagers like Sabrina wandering about. 

She found herself in a quiet, little corner, searching through the index of a book for the word delphinium, when her eyes landed on a book in the Satanic myth section a bookcase away. Abandoning her lighter read, she walked over to the hardback and pulled it from the shelf.  _Lilith represents chaos, seduction and ungodliness_.  She traced her nail over a depiction of her; naked, winged, owllike, flanked by two lions and two owls. 

It seemed to be a collection of references to Lilith throughout mythology and literature, including Sumerian myth,  Hebrew texts,  the Holy Bible, and of course the Satanic Bible. 

_ Lilith becomes not only a spirit of darkness, but also a figure of uncontrolled sexuality. _

Zelda particularly liked the image of Lilith with a serpentine body—it seemed rather foolish. 

Flicking through the pages, she considered signing it out of the library, when she saw a flash of a figure pass by the end of the row of literature she was stood in. Walking to the end, she saw Prudence retreating through the doors and disappearing around the corner.

Ever since she’d found out she was a Blackwood by blood she’d been anxious to prove herself to Faustus. Zelda felt uneasy as she placed the book back and left for a choir lesson. 

She didn’t see the witch again until after choir. “The High Priest wishes to see you,” She had a smug smile on her face, one Zelda wanted nothing more than to wipe off her face. She’d been wary of the girl ever since Sabrina’s Harrowing. Nodding, she brushed passed her without a word and made her way to Faustus’ office. 

He was pacing when she entered, morphing his worried frown into a mask of neutrality. 

“You wanted to speak to me?” 

“Prudence mentioned you were reading up on Lilith in the library,” Faustus said offhandedly, but looked nothing but troubled, pulling at his collar as he walked around his desk to sit. 

“She did?” Zelda took a seat herself, smoothing down her dress to stop it from riding up. “And why was Prudence looking out for what I was reading?”

“Oh, she merely came across you and saw the cover. She came to ask why we didn’t teach about her more often.” He waved his hand, tugging at his collar once again. Zelda saw the lie, saw how his skin seemed to crawl. 

“Right.” 

“So, why were you reading about her?” He finally asked outright, meeting her eyes. He was nervous, she noted. “Has...something happened?”

Zelda’s brows furrowed, lips pursing as she tapped her nail against his desk.  _Happened_? What would Faustus know about Lilith? 

“What in Hell do you mean, Faustus?” She was met with silence as he watched her expectantly. “After the play, I thought I’d do a bit more background reading on her. She’d slipped my mind.” 

Humming in acknowledgment, he rubbed at his chin. 

“What could’ve possibly happened?”

The High Priest seemed to be scrambling for something, an answer. Zelda watched on in suspicion, wondering what lie he would come up with. 

“Well, Lilith is the Dark Lord’s left hand. I wondered if...she’d come to you, through him?” He finally said, as fickle as Mary Wardwell’s lies. Zelda wondered why there was so much deceit surrounding her.

“And why would the Dark Lord send Lilith to do his bidding? Even if he had, you know these things are private matters, Father Blackwood,” She reminded, voice as cold as her stare. 

His eyes flashed, red almost, anger beneath the surface that he reigned in just quick enough not to let it brim. Zelda remained a picture of calm indifference. 

Maybe, even, the colour blue. 

“I believe I have a sacred scriptures class to teach. If you wouldn’t mind,” Gesturing towards the door, Zelda waited for Faustus to nod stiffly before leaving the room without so much as a glance backwards. She lingered for a few beats outside his door, considering his nervous behaviour, wondering what links he had to Lilith and why he seemed intimidated. 

It was hard to think the First Witch would want anything to do with Faustus Blackwood. It might’ve been his insecurities surrounding women with power. 

Zelda felt a flash of regret, a flash of warning. She quelled it by walking away from his office and walking home through the forest, cigarette lit between her lips.

-

Sabrina was leaving when she arrived back, a bag slung over her shoulder to stay at Roz’s. She mentioned Hilda being at Dr Cee’s and Ambrose with the warlocks at the Academy. 

Having the house to herself was both a blessing and a curse. It felt like a moment alone for her to say goodbye to everything, at least for some time. And yet, the emptiness was disconcerting. The absence of her family only reminded her of the time they’d have apart. She didn’t know when she’d grown so soft. It definitely had to be post Sabrina. 

Running her hands over the oak, Zelda sighed. This house had been with the Spellman’s for centuries. It’d been her childhood home and she’d said goodbye to it before. Why did it feel harder this time? 

Glancing at the picture frames and family heirlooms, Zelda made her way around the parlour taking everything in. Her shadow danced across the floor with the firelight—her cheeks red from the heat and hands in the process of warming. Maybe it would be good having some time alone. 

Heading over to the drinks sat in the corner, Zelda decided she’d drink enough to feel tipsy, before catching up on some mortal television she’d  never admit to watching. There was something about having a guilty pleasure such as the Addams Family. 

As she was pouring a glass of Macallan, however, there was a knock at the door, abrupt and unfamiliar. Sighing, she placed the spirit down near the fireplace and made her way towards the foyer. Mary Wardwell was stood on the other side, innocent smile gracing her features. 

“Sabrina isn’t here.” Was the first thing she could think to say, curt. 

“Oh,” With faux shock, Mary seemed to mourn that fact, before batting her eyelashes, “You wouldn’t mind letting me in, would you? It’s awfully cold out here.” 

Narrowing her eyes, she scowled at the clear manipulation. Mary simply blinked, blue eyes watching her carefully. 

“Fine.” Retreating into the hallway, she threw over her shoulder, “Shut the door behind you.” 

The witch trailed behind her towards the parlour, hands crossed demurely over her front as she looked around the home as if she’d never set foot in it. When, in truth, she was there too often—at least for Zelda’s liking. Her lips were painted their signature red, hair obnoxious, dress overly tight and heels, stark black and tall, placing her taller than Zelda. She hated to admit it was an attractive image. 

“Aren’t you going to offer me a drink?” She questioned as Zelda picked up her glass. 

Muttering under her breath about the nerve of her, Zelda tried to quell her irritation. 

“Would you like a drink?” She grit out, eyebrow arched dangerously. 

“Oh, no thank you,” Mary smirked, only widening at Zelda’s shock; looking thoroughly offended. 

Before she could splutter out a response, Mary laughed. “I’m just playing with you, Zelda.” The name dripped through her teeth like honey, overly sweet. “What’re you having?” 

“Whiskey.”

“Sounds delightful.” 

Begrudgingly pouring her unexpected guest a glass of her favourite whiskey,  _expensive_ , she handed it to her with a slight glare, only faltering as Mary’s fingers brushed over her own as she took it. 

Smirking around her glass, Ms. Wardwell took a testing sip, the liquid glistening as it moved. Zelda watched her throat bob, jaw sharpening as she knocked her head back ever so slightly. “Delicious.” Licking her lips, she didn’t once avert her gaze. 

Zelda couldn’t quite look away, drawn in by the colour of her eyes. Like the delphiniums calling out to her across the river in her dream. Like the river itself, enveloping her, making her apart of its very nature. 

The firelight flickered across her features, softening them rather than sharpening in the shadows. 

When she finally looked down at her hands, Mary spoke. “Where in Hell is everybody?” 

Drinking to wash out the dryness of her throat, she managed a brusque, “Out.” 

Nodding, Mary seemed amused at the short answer. 

They stood in relative silence, the wood burning beside them letting off a slight crackle. Zelda felt her thoughts drifting back to her dream, mulling over the interpretations. Could Mary Wardwell be linked in anyway? She had been the one with the delphiniums. 

Something about it did feel sure, and that was Faustus. It might’ve been her subconscious bringing up fears for their relationship, and now marriage. He’d been harsher in their dalliances recently. Hands rough and care gone. They’d stopped the flagellation, but she could remember the ache of her back and the shame that coursed through her body with it...Zelda might’ve underestimated him. 

“You seem troubled.” 

Zelda blanched at the intrusive question, personal in a way they’d never been, excluding Mary’s half baked explanation for her presence in Sabrina’s life, and brief conversations about Sabrina herself and whatever trouble she’d gotten into. It startled her from her thoughts. 

Trying to smile indifferently, it came off as bitter. 

“It’s a matter within my coven.” Mary seemed to read through it. She didn’t know what compelled her to elaborate, other than those imploring eyes, “A personal relationship.” 

Raising her eyebrows in question, Mary stayed silent as she swirled the whiskey around in her glass, an image of patience. 

“I’m to marry the High Priest in some days time.” The woman didn’t falter, unsurprised - Zelda gathered Sabrina had told her, probably ranting about how awful Father Blackwood was. “It was for power, truthfully, though I fear I might be walking into a trap. Faustus can be vindictive, and Sabrina has angered him before.” 

Mary scoffed suddenly, and Zelda might’ve been offended if she hadn’t spoken. “Faustus Blackwood’s power is merely an illusion.” 

The way she said it with such intent. Weight behind it. Clarity. Zelda could only stare silently, almost in a stupor. How could an excommunicated witch from another coven know anything about her High Priest, and be able to make statements such as that, with so much conviction? A voice in the back of her head told her that it was because she wasn’t merely an excommunicated witch. Maybe not at all. 

“The sex must be crappy.” 

Mildly amused, Zelda offered a surprised smile, the shock wearing off. Mary latched onto it like it was a rare thing. “What gave you that impression?” 

“Isn’t it always subpar with a man?” She smirked, a hand reaching out to brush over the ends of Zelda’s hair. “Especially one whose false prowess in life can only reflect his prowess in...other areas.”

Swallowing thickly, Zelda stomped on the feeling tugging at her gut as if it were an unwanted fire. The hand retreated, making it easier for her to focus. 

“He was...okay at first.” Mary walked behind her, like the start of a sensual dance (just like they’d been dancing around the tension between them). 

Zelda could feel the eyes on her, despite Mary wandering around. She’d caught her attention, it seemed. “What happened?”

“It got...mediocre, I suppose you could say. If a little bitter and degrading.” 

“You’re not a lady of mediocrity, are you Zelda?” Picking up a black and white picture of Zelda only a couple of centuries old, she brushed a finger around the frame. She watched her carefully place the picture back, before moving onto the next. 

“And what can you say about mediocrity? Aren’t you a high school civics teacher?”

That had her turning her attention back to her, a mischievous smile, “I think you know there’s much more to me than that.” 

“Maybe.” 

Mary continued her exploration, much in the same way Zelda had earlier. Brushing over the wood, regarding each photo carefully, even tinkering with her bottle of whiskey. She read the label, running her finger over the words. It bothered Zelda. How she had to touch everything, like marking her territory. 

Once she’d gotten bored, she slinked back over to her, leaning against the wall beside the fire and blinking at her. 

“Now why would you let Faustus take any sort of power from you?” Mary tilted her head to the side, searching. “He feeds on the inferiority of women.” 

“And how do you know so much about Father Blackwood?” She challenged, placing her glass down so she could lace her fingers together and regard Mary closely. 

“I worked for you brother, didn’t I?”  _Right._

It still didn’t quite explain how she knew the ins and outs of his view of witches. He’d only recently started to show that side of him. Zelda still struggled to reconcile how Edward wouldn’t have told herself and Hilda about this woman. 

And if she wasn’t here to protect Sabrina, then why was she here? 

Just as she was considering confronting her about it, Mary stepped into her space, forcing her gaze upwards with her mere presence. Zelda should’ve stepped back. Pushed her away, placed distance between them. Instead, she found herself leaning closer, hanging on to whatever the witch’s next move would be.

“Your cheeks are a pretty little red,” Brushing the back of her fingers over them, Mary’s eyes shone, seemingly enraptured by the mere colour of her skin. Zelda swallowed under the touch, eyes closing on their own accord as the hand traced down to her jaw. “Open your eyes, would you?” 

Mary’s face was ever so close, the hand cupped under her chin. Her thumb reached up to dance over her lip, so scarce that it felt like a phantom touch. 

Instinctually, she leant into it, watching as the witch’s brows lifted ever so slightly, lashes fluttering as her eyes widened—emotion amplified by their proximity. Zelda liked the transparency. Seeing a warmth to the blue when up so close. 

Thumb at her inner lip, moistening somewhat, Mary pulled back to glance at it under the firelight. 

Something passed over her. A resolution, perhaps. A quiet curiosity.

“May I?” Leaning closer, Mary’s gaze flickered between each of her eyes, a hesitance about her Zelda didn’t think she’d ever seen. 

It was something she wished to simultaneously hold onto, like a delicate flower, and sooth all at one. 

Perhaps it was a moment of weakness, again. This draw she had to power and lust. Maybe, it was a last grasp at freedom. An indulgence, before she’d say her vows and likely remain dedicated, just as she did her religion—devout and dutiful. Zelda was no romantic, at least not with Faustus, but she knew the weight of being the High Priest’s wife. Their religion didn’t attempt to promote monogamy, but it was likely something Father Blackwood expected. 

With a surprising softness, not dissimilar to what Mary had shown her, she pressed their lips together. Placing herself in the grasp of desire and allowing her body to become pliant and yielding to the forces of carnality and instinct, Zelda looped her arms around Mary’s neck and leant into her touch where it landed on her hips, firm. 

Fingertips pressed into her flesh, separated by the material of her dress—fruitless in preventing the heat of her grip from burning its way under her skin, rendering her mind thoughtless, but for her senses; attuned to Mary’s sharp intakes of breath, the smell of magic, like an expensive perfume...of sin itself. 

It had her softening, mouth opening as Mary deepened the kiss, dragging her in with it. 

A hand slid up her side, over her breast until it reached her jaw, tipping her head back so they separated. Zelda blinked, trying to catch her breath as Mary just watched her, seemingly taking in every detail. Her thumb reached for her lower lip again, teeth sinking into her own as she brushed over it. 

There was clear desire clouding her blue eyes, piercing, analysing Zelda’s every reaction. 

“Decadent,” She murmured, quite sudden, before hovering her mouth over Zelda’s throat. Her lungs stuttered at the feeling, clinging to Mary’s dress. 

Her breath was warm against her neck, leaving a trail, a blaze, followed by lips—moist and soft; still as warm as the fire in the hearth, yet different. The sort of hot where, after hours in the cold—hands numbed and stiff—the warmth burns, cold. Perhaps this is what hellfire felt like. Blue flames licking at her skin and settling deep in her bloodstream. 

A warm palm brushed up her arm, settling against her sternum, a quiet pulse at her chest. It felt grounding. Bringing her thoughts back from Hell, to Earth. 

Soon enough, Mary’s mouth was back on hers, engulfing her lips like a flame. She was fervent, hot and impassioned, a steady, powerful force. Zelda was almost overwhelmed with the feeling of her magic crackling in the air, like the moment before lightning strikes and the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, anticipating the charge. She barely noticed it was something stronger, something ancient and dark, just that it left her struck; slack and intense all at once. Burning. 

She was urged backwards until her back met the wall, only just missing the clock. 

A hand was brushing away the flimsy strap on her shoulder, delicate, lips following closely. 

Zelda grasped at her shoulders, just barely holding onto the velvet, bone and flesh shifting underneath as Mary lathered her skin with heat. Her hands never settled in one place, not skittish, but confident in their exploration. From her neck, her lower back, until one grasped at her thigh, splaying across her skin, before it was lifted so her knee hooked around Mary’s hip and she settled between her legs more snugly. Zelda gasped at the shift, pressing herself closer. 

The hand on her thigh inched her dress up slowly, taking a brief detour to palm her ass, before skirting back to lift the material up to her lower stomach. 

Pulling back, Mary looked down between them, Zelda following her gaze to see the way her dress was bunched up over her black lace panties, Mary’s hips pressed against her own. She looked entirely dishevelled, she was sure, and the witch seemed to be drinking it up with a level of desire Zelda hadn’t seen or felt in a good century or so. 

With great effort, Zelda teleported them to her room, dropping back onto her bed and trying to drag Mary with her. The witch didn’t budge, looking down at her with raised brows. Her lipstick was smeared, hair angling her face, eyes shining beneath the moonlight seeping through her window. 

“A bit presumptuous, don’t you think?” 

Zelda felt slightly embarrassed, cheeks warming, but still clouded by desire, coherency long gone. Ducking under her teasing gaze, she held back a gasp as a hand snaked behind her neck and urged her to look up. Mary stepped closer, widening her legs with her knee and standing between them. She looked a sight, above her like this, almost Hell sent. Zelda didn’t quite know how she’d had the resolve not to do this earlier. 

“So you don’t like to fuck standing up?” She said, fingers curling into her hair.

Zelda huffed, impatient. “I’ll fuck whatever way you want if you get on with it.” 

“Feisty,” Mary chuckled, though her gaze darkened, crouching until her mouth rested against her ear. “Whatever way?” 

“Yes,” She spoke through a clenched jaw, exhaling shakily as teeth closed around her lobe, tugging. 

Mary guided her backwards with a tug at her locks, following her movement until she was straddling her lap. She looked sinful, thighs either side of her hips as her own dress rode up, the hint of dark, green lace underneath. Zelda reached for it, dragging it up. She had to sit to take it all the way off, what with the way it was practically painted to her body, Mary helping. It left her in matching lingerie, breasts cupped in a sheer, loose bralette that left nothing to the imagination. 

She wasn’t gifted much time to simply look, nor was she permitted to touch, it seemed, because as her hand smoothed over the crest of her hip, towards the juncture between her breasts, warm fingers were curling around her wrist. 

They stayed there as she guided her backwards with a palm at her chest. Only relenting when Mary settled mostly atop her, hair falling to the side as her elbows came to rest either side of Zelda’s head. 

“And why are you still dressed?” 

With a subtle flick of Mary’s wrist, Zelda was in her underwear, chest brushing against Mary’s as she inhaled sharply. The feeling of hot skin against her own, the subtle weight of the witch above her; it had Zelda’s heart rate picking up as the arousal grew between her legs. 

A hand brushed over her collarbones, moving aside strands of hair. When her finger caught on her bra strap, Mary reached behind Zelda to unclasp it, leaning back as she threw it over her shoulder, and moved to cover one of her breasts with her hand. A thumb circled her nipple, palm pushing at the flesh as she searched for a reaction, grinning victoriously as Zelda’s hips jumped up when she pinched. 

Zelda reached up to brush their lips together again. Tongue tracing over Mary’s mouth as the witch cupped both of her boobs and separated her legs with a foot. Her thigh slot into the space, pressing up against her and eliciting a low moan that had her biting into Zelda’s lower lip and tugging at the flesh, harsh enough to sting. 

Searching for the noise again, Mary’s left hand dropped to her hip so she could press Zelda against her more fully, chuckling when it worked. 

“Are you going to fucking tease me this whole time?” Zelda gasped, arm reaching around Mary’s back to find something to hold onto. She marvelled at the movement of muscle and bone beneath it.

“I’m merely working you up so you’re nice and wet when I get to it,” She breathed into her ear, seemingly just as effected. 

“I’ve been wet since you put your mouth on my neck.” 

Mary pulled back, eyes intense as they flickered between her own. Zelda noticed they were entirely blue. No flecks of green, or grey, just pure cerulean. They flickered, like the flames of Hell, before she dipped her face into her neck.

She couldn’t quite decipher between lips, teeth and tongue, all becoming a single sensation against her skin, seeking groans of pleasure. Mary slowed, her teeth grazing over her pulse point as she traced down the slope and bit into the juncture between her neck and shoulder. Zelda was almost panting beneath her, a simmer beneath her skin as she was built up and made ready like a Queen before the Feast of Feasts. 

A hand ran down to tug at the edge of her panties, snapping experimentally. She startled, feeling a devilish grin against her neck as Mary pulled the elastic again, letting it smack against her skin. “ _ Mary _ .” 

“Yes, Zelda?” Her voice, saccharine, brushed against the skin of her shoulder as she traced her lips downwards, stopping at her sternum. 

Mary looked up at her through hooded eyes as she pushed her fingers beneath her waistband, grazing over her pubic bone with two fingers. “Does the carpet match the drapes?” She drolled, an evil glint in her eyes. 

Zelda managed to roll her eyes, the scoff dying in her throat as Mary suddenly dipped her fingers down and pressed them against her, sliding easily over her clit with the slickness gathered. Keening, Zelda tried to stifle her moan, efforts futile when Mary repeated the motion.

“Oh, you poor little thing,” Mary hushed against her chest, latching her teeth around a nipple and pulling, “So desperate.” 

Zelda cursed whatever deity, witch or warlock was responsible for unnecessary foreplay when Mary removed her hand, smirking wryly. 

Refusing to rise to it, Zelda simply waited, pulse thrumming with anticipation as she felt Mary shift, hands latching onto her underwear and pulling them down her legs; moving with them. “My, my, these are soaked.” She might’ve felt mildly embarrassed if she wasn’t so turned on, and if Mary didn’t seem to be emboldened by it, if the fingertips now drifting over her inner thighs were any indication. 

Leaning forwards, her bottom lip followed a path up her leg, stopping at blemishes, tracing freckles and deviating from it’s desired destination—purposefully no doubt. Zelda tugged at her hair, fingers looped around soft ringlets, twisting them lightly to urge her forwards. She felt a grin against the crease of her thigh and huffed, impatient. 

“Do you have any intention of fucking me?” 

She felt more than she heard Mary _tsk_ against her skin, a finger tapping against her hip as if to say  _ patience_. 

“Say please,” Her breath was warm against her sex, face having moved closer in Zelda’s irritated distraction. 

She was way past the point of having any semblance of pride. “ _ Please. _ ” 

“Now that you’ve asked so nicely...” Suddenly, Mary’s tongue was on her clit, swiping across her cunt in a steady motion of wet heat. Zelda’s thighs spasmed as she began a swirling motion, a gentle palm lifting her leg over her shoulder. Mary alternated between her tongue and sucking her clit between her lips. 

Her voice wavered as she cried out, already feeling her orgasm only just out of reach. 

It built up, a crescendo, hands shaking as she sought leverage in Mary’s hair. 

Zelda’s skin burned beneath her touch, stomach quivering as she was brought close to the edge, only ceasing when the witch between her legs slowed. 

“What are you-  _ fuck_!” 

Mary bit into her thigh as she replaced her tongue with a hand, palm brushing over her clit as she pressed her fingers inside, fucking her with fervour, the pads of her fingertips pressing into exactly the right spot.

“Open your eyes, Zelda. Watch how I’m fucking you.” 

Blinking rapidly, her gaze landed on the movement of Mary’s wrist, flexing and twisting, her tendon rising and falling with her movement. 

“That’s a good witch.”

Perhaps this is what she’d been seeking. When she shifted to look at Mary’s face, teeth sunk into her lip, her eyes were blue like a hot spring, and her touch, searing, spread flames, like Hellfire, across her skin; sinking into supple flesh and taking root in her very essence. 

She came to Mary’s fingers working inside of her, tongue flattening over her clit again to push her over the edge. The warmth between her legs spread out through her body in a wave of pleasure, Zelda clutching Mary’s hand, the one on her thigh, to stay grounded. It felt almost like the moment before astral projecting; where the astral body starts to pull away from your physical form, weightless, but there’s still something trying to tug you back.

Chest rising and falling rapidly, she tried to steady her pulse, pushing the mouth between her legs away. 

When she regained the ability to think, Mary’s arm was thrown over her hips where she’d been holding her down, watching her intently.

“Come up here,” She requested, voice thick and wavering.

Mary, sliding up her body, accepted a kiss enthusiastically, tongue meeting Zelda’s languid movement as the witch beneath her gripped at her shoulders, still halfway out of her body. 

For a moment she regretted not just fucking her during Lupercalia. With a new determination, Zelda felt her hand straying to Mary’s chest, tweaking a nipple beneath the lace and kneading the flesh in her palm. The body above her leant into the touch, lips finding her neck once again as she exhaled sharply. 

It could be addictive; the way the composed woman could display such passion. The moonlight danced over her back as Zelda’s hand slipped beneath her panties, finding her wet and wanton; squirming against her fingers as they found a rhythm that had her moaning her approval. 

She was a lot louder than Zelda, ostentatious in her display of pleasure in a way that was entirely authentic. Her hips moved in tandem to her fingers, ardent and almost frantic. Zelda found herself brushing her hair out of the way to kiss down her jaw, running her teeth across her neck as she tilted her head in submission. 

Picking up her pace as a thumb brushed over her clit, Zelda’s other hand found its way beneath her bra, slowly bringing the woman to climax with a few more deep strokes. 

Mary became pliant, fingers slackening their hold on the bedsheet and magic uncoiling, settling over Zelda like hot coal and thick spice. It felt dark. Powerful; too powerful for that of a standard witch—an excommunicated witch at that. 

“Who are you?” She questioned against her neck once she’d caught her breath and was no longer heaving on top of Zelda. 

She leant back, elbows taking her weight as she looked down at her, features almost soft.

“Why, Mary Wardwell of course,” She said, a glint in her eyes, impish. 

Zelda narrowed her own eyes, watching her for a long time. A silence stretched between them as neither broke the stare. Before she could speak, a finger pressed against her lips. 

“Another round?” It was a distraction, but Zelda didn’t really think much of it when she had to make good on her promise of  _ whatever way_, and Mary wanted her riding her fingers in her lap. 

It was only when they were lying side by side, Zelda’s hand cramping and legs sore, that she thought about it again. 

Mary was turned just slightly away from her, playing with a strand of her own hair, resting over an uncovered breast. Zelda studied the movement of her chest as she breathed, the way her eyes flit around the room, and how her body heat was so enticing; she felt the need to do something stupid, like get closer. She realised she’d probably just fucked something, or rather, somebody, beyond her comprehension. And yet, a part of her couldn’t care less. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really didn’t mean to write the sex in that much detail, and make the build up so long, but it happened so...let me know your thoughts, comments only fuel my passion for this story (they really can make your day).


	5. fool’s gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Within a couple days she’d be married. Whisked away to Rome as Lady Blackwood, and Mary Wardwell would be the least of her concerns.
> 
> Zelda doubted that would ring true

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter follows canon closely at the start, before diverging. I’m sorry if this is a little wordy but I felt it was necessary to write about the events to form a better understanding of the plot. A heads up for some brief violence and an attempted caligari spell x

_  
“ Clearness is so eminently one of the characteristics of truth, that often it even passes for truth itself.”_

-

The room felt cold when she woke up, the bed glaringly empty. There was a dip in the sheet beside her where she pulled back the comforter, and ruffles in the pillow. She spent just a little too long looking at the space before she got up, making sure to avoid touching it as if Mary would be able to feel it, somehow, as if she were tracing over her skin. The clock on the side said it was 6.

Slipping from beneath the covers, she reached for her robe, pulling it tight to her body as she shivered; the winter air seeping through the cracks of her window. 

She watched herself in the mirror, hair unkempt, skin at her neck flushed red—which, upon closer inspection as she neared the glass, was lipstick; waxy and smudged. She spread her hand over it, feeling it become malleable again beneath the warmth of her fingertips. 

Her legs felt sore, the skin between her thighs sensitive. Zelda’s gut tightened when she thought about Mary’s tongue on her cunt, the feeling of her fingers unravelling the woman atop her; wet and warm and passionate. Shaking her head, Zelda sighed, vowing to wash away the memory—at least, push it to the back of her mind—with a shower. 

The water didn’t do much, only washed away the visible evidence of the sex - apart from a bite mark on her neck, which she could easily cover up. It all felt so trivial, the sort of stuff she would’ve giggled over in her youth (well— Zelda was never much of a giggler). 

Within a couple days she’d be married. Whisked away to Rome as Lady Blackwood, and Mary Wardwell would be the least of her concerns. 

Zelda doubted that would ring true. 

Still; she prayed to Satan for everything to be smooth sailing until at least after the honeymoon. It wasn’t an impossible prayer, surely, until, of course, Sabrina sparked more trouble. Edward, visiting Sabrina? It hadn’t even been a full day before she was storming in, calling for a family meeting, rambling about the ghost of her father and a warning, barely comprehensible. 

“He told me that Father Blackwood was responsible for his and my mother’s murder.” 

Zelda barely held back a scoff, hand instinctively rising like she was about to take a drag of a cigarette. Instead, she brushed back her hair, eyes narrowing.

“There was an independent inquiry conducted by the Council when your parents died. They concluded that the plane crash was the result of mechanical engine failure. Nothing more than that. It was a horrible, tragic accident.”

Sabrina, of course, continued on her rampage about finishing her fathers life’s work by carrying out his manifesto, whilst Zelda prayed she didn’t take this to Faustus and potentially sabotage her marriage before it’d even happened. The gall of that girl. Zelda could see her now, traipsing on down to Mary Wardwell’s cottage, getting the encouragement she needed there instead. Briefly, she regretted giving that woman the time of day—or night, might be more accurate. She was trouble. Whether she was Mary Wardwell or not; stoking the flame, what might’ve been just a spark, a mere idea, and turning into a full fire. Blue and dangerous.

Perhaps that’s why Zelda was drawn to her. Because of the danger. The mystery. She reminded herself it was no use dwelling on such things when Mary Wardwell would fade from her memory just as most of her one night stands had. 

Her wedding eve was the next day and the only reprieve she had was that Faustus approved of Hilda returning to the Church of Night, and the anti-Pope would be arriving.

For a moment, she wondered at what cost. Balancing on the precipice of constant danger and alertness. Zelda wondered if Mary was right, and she was just uptight. 

-

_ “Truth. To surround it with figures and colors, so that it can be seen.” _

-

Then; everything seemed to fall apart. 

The day started promisingly. She woke feeling refreshed, an anxious tug at her stomach that was quelled by some soothing tea that Hilda made for everyone. The quell didn’t last long. 

The anti-Pope arrived in his extravagant robes, and Zelda had the honour of leading him through the doors of the Academy like somebody important, somebody worthy; somebody who pleased both the anti-Pope and Lucifer: words from the former's mouth himself. They weaved like string around her ambition, pulling it closer to the surface, and eliminating any doubt in Zelda’s mind; like a seed planted, soon to sprout as reward for her devotion. 

It only fuelled Zelda’s anticipation for what was ahead. It was expected for a bride to prepare herself for the Dark Lord the night before her wedding. Like a doll; she spread oils into her skin and dressed herself pretty, pacing around the room whilst Hilda tried to quell the thrumming beneath her skin. One might’ve interpreted it as excitement, but the frown on Zelda’s face suggested anxiety. 

Briefly, she thought of Mary Wardwell and all her juxtapositions. She was every bit a cold and hard witch, and yet, the heat in her eyes was overwhelming, and she touched Zelda with a gentleness that was altogether soft yet firm. Then, she admonished herself for thinking of a woman whilst waiting for her deity.

He came, of course he came. Fear flickered over Hilda’s face before she fled. Zelda dared not turn around, slowly kneeling to the ground as he huffed, the trill of a goat. She could feel him stepping closer, his magic clinging to the air like thick oil, almost stifling.Just as his form towered over her, a sense of dread rushing up her spine, he was pulled away by heresy. Zelda couldn’t quite compartmentalise it all. Rushing to see the commotion, only to watch as Faustus slit his own boy’s throats one by one, knife sharp and resounding as he made his way towards Ambrose--the fear cresting, rising in her throat like bile as she yelled for him to stop--before Amrbose muttered a spell and disappeared. The anti-Pope lay dead, covered in blood and lifeless, his lips parted, like he’d yelled out before his death, or was mid exhale as he slept. She pondered whether he was aware he was about to die, and who he would’ve thought about on his last breath, if not his imminent end. 

She was shaking as they neared the mortuary like a pack of hunting wolves, nails digging half moons into her palms as she prayed that Ambrose had the sense to be gone from home, even if he had killed the anti-Pope. The evidence was there, but Zelda simply couldn’t imagine why or how or what. She was rattled, grasping at her mask of composure with barely any grip. The only comfort was Hilda beside her, and Ambrose’s absence—spirited away, hopefully safe. 

Sipping at a drink in the parlour, Zelda tried to make sense of everything. Tried to mourn the sense of normalcy that she’d wished for, and the idea of being married. For a beat, she was relieved. There was so much weighing against this marriage, and perhaps it was for the best. There was too much chaos, all surrounding her so closely. 

Faustus broke the spell; expectant as he told Zelda they’d go through with the wedding the next day.

For once she agreed with Sabrina, her indignant tone about sharing a funeral with a wedding a voice of reason—though addled with teenage insecurities. Alas, Faustus was insistent, and it was best to agree with him, especially with the position she was in as Ambrose’s aunt. 

In bed, she found herself clutching the sheets to her chin. The anti-Pope’s death, it was rattling. Surely a bad omen. Death around a wedding never meant anything good, especially the death of his Unholy Eminence. 

Zelda dreamt again of a river. It’s streams flowed lazily, corners soft. An illusion. Soon enough, the soil was pulling her down, roots sprouting out from the ground and trying to curl their way around her ankles as the trees reached down for her wrists. 

It was a vicious battle of wills. Zelda’s mental vigour manifesting as her physical form. It was violent, debilitating, and the voice looming over her was much the same.

“You feel it. The looming sense of being trapped. Unfurl from his grasp like a blossoming flower.” 

Her leg sank into the ground, constrained as she yelled and pulled, fighting the forces working against her. 

“Erode away at his power over you before it’s too late, and create your own tributary.”

She woke, breathless and sweating, pulse racing as she took in her surroundings and began to calm. She could still feel the touch of the roots against her calves, the desperate need to get out of a grasp that was holding her. The message sent was clear; and yet, what was she to do? Halting the wedding was out of the question. There was too much at stake. She’d believed, this whole time, that if she were aware of the power Faustus sought over witches, then she’d be exempt. Knowledge was power, and so was clarity. And still, these warnings flashed through her mind like hurricane alerts; impending and clear. 

Whether the battle was her own mind, fighting with itself, or something more, Zelda couldn’t do anything but ignore it. Pushing down the doubt with her black veil, shedding her fear to replace it with her wedding dress, Hilda tinkering about, fluffing up her hair and righting the train that spread behind her. 

Like a lamb to slaughter she was led down the aisle, dagger gripped in her hands, a fickle protection. _No_ – like the prominent figure she was, she was paraded down the aisle, a crown at the tips of her fingers, and the dagger sealing it all with blood.

The dream rang in her mind as Hilda joined their hands with the sheet of mortal skin, and Faustus repeated the words, “You shall respect me, obey me, and submit to me. As Lilith served Satan, so will you serve me.” There was fear, tugging at her chest, burnt out coal in the bottom of her stomach—rendered useless by an icy chill. Recognition; of Lilith, of her presence in her dreams, the delphiniums, a warning. But surely- surely Lilith rejoiced in serving Satan?

Zelda pushed Lilith to the back of her mind and tried to find pride in it all. The coven watching as she was married to the High Priest, the power right there, the other side of their joining...and once again, her family served as only a hindrance, an embarrassment to the Spellman name as Sabrina condemned her High Priest in front of their whole coven, and Ambrose brandished his knife and attempted murder, tarnishing the wedding before it’d been officiated. 

She was shaken. Disillusioned. Zelda didn’t know what to think or feel anymore, the taste of betrayal on the tip of her tongue, betrayal by her own family. She was caught between doubt, disdain and uncertainty. 

With cold shame and a new resolution, Zelda went ahead with the marriage in Faustus’ office. 

It was the only way she could think to redeem herself, somehow. The only way to protect her family, despite how they’d made a fool out of her. If she hadn’t...then what? Ambrose would die, Sabrina would be thrown into the dungeons along with him, and there was no telling what would happen to herself and Hilda; likely cast out of the coven. No, she wouldn’t let it happen. She’d take the weight of her family's actions on her shoulders and go ahead with it, as she did time and time again. 

They wouldn’t understand- of course they wouldn’t. Duty: they were unfamiliar with it. They could never truly know what ought to be done, and what ought to be cast aside (reckless acts based on emotion, for one). Everything always came down to her, and Sabrina and Hilda looked at her as if she were the one forsaking them, when really she was the only one _protecting_ them. 

Zelda suddenly wished she had her delphiniums. They were half grown that morning, not quite matured, and she wondered what they were like now. Instead, she lit a cigarette and held it between her bare fingers, calming slightly as the smoke filled her lungs.

As she tinkered with her jewellery, she craved the flowers, and she craved warmth; something absent in the room she resided in, waiting for Faustus to lead them off to their honeymoon. 

She thought of blue, frowned at the red of the curtains shrouding the window, and thought of Mary Wardwell. How she’d traced over her skin like it was something to be worshipped. Her next inhale was sharp. 

“Zelda, are you ready?” Faustus entered the room with a forced smile, entirely faux as he brushed back his hair and held out his arm. Quickly she ground her cigarette and dropped it in the ashtray she’d conjured. 

“Yes.” She stood, letting him take her arm in his own and standing upright. 

“A wedding for the history books, I’m sure,” There was a dangerous glint in his eye as he watched her, as if daring her to defend her family. When she simply nodded, he sighed. ”Nevermind, I’m sure Rome will bring greater things.”

Zelda wondered what he had planned, and if it in any way pertained to the pope. 

“Speaking of Rome, I have a gift for you when we get there.”

Offering up a curious smile, she regarded Faustus’ pleased grin. “What is it?”

“It’s not much of a gift if I tell you, is it?” He said, rolling back his shoulders as they neared the door. 

She might’ve felt slightly relieved by their short conversation, the normalcy she’d craved, if Faustus hadn’t made her walk behind him.

-

The room they were given was, for a lack of a better analogy, fit for an anti-Pope. Zelda allowed herself to take it all in with a smile, fingers tracing over the walls and brushing over the velvet curtains. Perhaps some time away from Greendale would be a reprieve, even if Faustus asked her to put her Marlboro's away when she pulled them from her purse, and told her the scotch could wait. Until when, Zelda didn’t know. 

Their luggage had been placed neatly beside their bed, and carefully she sifted through her clothes, checking everything was intact. 

“Come sit down,” Faustus requested, legs dipping into the mattress as he sat. He patted the space beside him almost warmly, and Zelda stood from her crouched position to take the spot. “How do you like Rome?”

“It’s just as I remembered it, every bit as unholy,” She remarked, noticing that when Faustus was sitting, shirt unbuttoned at the top and hair a little looser on his head, he was warmer. 

“I have your gift.” Reaching for his bag, he pulled out a wooden box, handing it over to Zelda with a smile—genuine. 

Tracing over the surface, Zelda toyed with the hinges before opening it, smiling as she saw a petite figure similar to herself, right in the centre of the music box. She traced a finger over her red hair, delicate. 

“It’s beautiful, Faustus.” She placed a palm on his leg, smiling gratefully, “Thank you.”

“I’m glad it pleases you, Zelda.” 

Placing it on her lap, she twisted the dial at the side so the figure started to spin, the music hypnotic, almost. 

“Would you care to dance?” 

“What, are we mortals?” She scoffed, not taking Faustus as the type to rejoice in wedding dances.

“I didn’t know dancing was purely for mortals,” He said, watching her carefully as she stood to place the gift down on a row of drawers opposite them. 

“I suppose we can dance,” She relented, slightly taken by the idea. They weren’t romantic, not by a long shot, but Zelda had always appreciated the intimacy that came with dancing with somebody. He smiled, offering his hand as she turned and pulling her in close. 

She held onto Faustus tightly, led around the room, twirling, quick footsteps against the floor. He was a rather good dancer, if a little overbearing, but Zelda relaxed as he began to mutter under his breath, perhaps quietly murmuring a song. How intriguing. 

As they continued to dance, she blinked as her sight grew bleary—whether from dizziness or something else—feeling her mind tug and slip as she was spun, and yet couldn’t quite ask him to stop. For a moment, it felt like she was slipping from herself, curling inwards, like her conscious mind was filtering through her unconscious and muddling together as she fought to hold onto herself, and couldn’t. 

By the time her mind had settled and grasped onto its surroundings, Zelda no longer felt in control. She felt it; this distinct feeling of entrapment. Taking a back seat in her own mind. She watched, in silent horror, as Faustus stopped the dance, gave her a sickeningly sweet smile, and asked her to pour him a drink. She wondered what she would’ve done if she could’ve. If she would've made the drink, or told him to make it himself. There was no use pondering, however, because her body did the action for her, voice melodic and sugar sweet as she submissively bowed her head and agreed, gliding over to the scotch—dark for her tastes—and poured the liquid into the glass, attuned to the way it sloshed against the side and settled like a bad taste. 

Faustus was beaming when she handed him the glass, eyes glowing with something dark and twisted; having Zelda in the palm of his hand, will crushed to the back of her skull and prohibited from moving. 

Zelda clawed at whatever she could, phantom movements as she tried to scratch her way out, willing for freedom, for darkness, perhaps, for at least, sanctuary away from this prison—a way to not have to see it and feel it and watch as Faustus sneered in her direction and asked her to change into a dress he’d procured from the wardrobe, floral and bright, like this was always a part of his plan. She pleaded, in her mind, desperate, and as her body began undressing, she willed her eyes to shut.

When her body blinked, a brief darkness, she opened her eyes to the translucent forest, wavering and murky.

Her surroundings—they were even more alive than the night before, the roots beneath her feet like fists dragging her through the mud as she flailed to stand upright, sinking to her knees pitifully. The dirt was tangible, hot as it pressed against her skin and made its way beneath her nails. She gasped, fighting her way through as she desperately tried to stand. The trees above arched and swayed, a branch curling around her shoulder, another into her hair, tugging. 

“Stand up.” The voice, it wasn’t her own. It was the forest, speaking, Lilith. The soil hummed with it, the trees rumbled, and the distant delphiniums lining the bank of the river, they screeched.

“I can’t,” She seethed through clenched teeth, or perhaps she projected it as a thought; sharp yet strained.

“ _Stand up_ ,” Was repeated, harsher now. “Unfurl.”

Thrashing against the roots wrapped around her feet, she tried to push herself up from the soil, but only sank deeper. “Help me.”

“You have to do this yourself, Zelda.” The roots stung, dragging into the skin of her wrists. “Stand. You coward. You fickle thing. _Weak_.”

The words, forceful, they emboldened her. How dare she. (Perhaps that was her plan--to incite rage). With a fierce determination, she clawed at the soil and yanked her wrists, unsuccessful. She tried magic, but it fluttered away like loose petals. Fingers curling around the roots, she crushed them beneath her bones, trying brute force until her arms were finally pulled free. With quick movements, she worked on setting her legs free, batting away at the branches seeking for her. 

With a quick tug, a crushing, they were relinquished. She saw more, reaching for her, crawling across the ground like serpents, and rushed to stand, barely registering the movement until she was upright and running towards the bank of the river, sight turning hazy once again as the forest blurred. She wished for wings, like a night owl. The delphiniums flattened beneath her feet as she stood at the river bank, chest heaving as the forest settled and she slipped further into herself. Zelda, for a moment, wanted to stay there. But then she remembered her body, as lifeless as the anti-Pope, and whether she had a choice or not she was ripped from the forest like a weed, and in a rush of confusion and warped flashes of Faustus and herself dancing, she found herself back in the room in Rome, dress halfway down her stomach before she froze. It hung, limp at her sides as she sucked in sharply and looked frantically around the room, as if not believing she was there. 

Faustus’ steady gaze flickered, confusion, before Zelda yanked her dress back up in a test of control, and levelled the High Priest with a heated glare. He blinked, taken aback, surprised, then just a hint of fear as she carefully zipped up her dress and took a deep breath. Composing herself. Making sense of all that’d happened. 

“Zeld-”

“How _dare_ you?” She spat, the words flying from her mouth like sharp swords as her hands began to shake with rage, a thrum beneath her skin as her magic crackled and stretched out like a vine. It wrapped itself around Faustus’ neck, a vicious thing as he choked in surprise and reached up to try to relieve himself somehow. “A caligari spell? Are you out of your mind?” 

For a moment, she thought about tightening her hold and snapping his neck. Squeezing the oxygen from his lungs and dangling his body in the air like a puppet. Lifeless and bending to her will. Then; she remembered the state of the coven back home, of her family. Ambrose’s fate hanging in the balance, a pendulum swinging between possibilities. With reluctance, Zelda loosened her hold, and allowed herself the satisfaction of watching Faustus gasp for air, face red, eyes shining as he spluttered and choked like a child choking on food. 

“You would betray one of the Dark Lord’s most important teachings? You’d strip me of my free will?”

Zelda barely had time to acknowledge that somehow, Lilith had helped in saving her, too overcome with her anger, shock, a quiet fear at the prospect of never getting out of that Satan forsaken dance. Barely had time to register the countless things that could’ve happened whilst she wasn’t in control of her body. 

It made her feel sick to her stomach. 

Reaching for the music box, where her dancing figure had stopped, paused like it could start again any minute, Zelda sent it flying against the hotel wall. She stamped on it, the wood scratching at her bare sole as she sent her foot down repeatedly, until it was broken up enough for her to gather up and launch out the window. There was a subtle ache in her foot as she stood upright, breathing heavily. Faustus had watched the outburst in shock, pulling at his collar. He didn’t try to defend himself, there was no defending a spell like that. No working your way around something so inexplicably cruel and cowardly. Twisted, sick, betraying any and all trust—not that there was any beforehand. 

Zelda could hardly believe he’d do such a thing. But then she remembered his misogynistic plans for their church. Remembered Mary, dubbing his power as merely an illusion. Remembered Lilith, warning her, the forest, grasping at her limbs and holding her down like the spell itself. 

Her anger was without limits. Raw and fuelled by magic. 

“I will stay with you throughout the rest of this honeymoon for appearances. Then when we get back to Greendale, I’m going home.” It was said with a finality to it. There was to be no negotiation, no compromise. She pointed at Faustus solidly, voice like poison. “I’m going outside for a cigarette. Unless, of course, you boarded up the doors.” 

He shook his head, watching as she stormed over to her purse and left the room, only allowing herself to breathe properly once she was outside, and the walls weren’t closing in on her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote the majority of this just today, so, I hope it’s okay?? There will be more from Lilith/Mary next chapter :))
> 
> if you have any thoughts let me know x


	6. void and fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary opened the door in one of her over-the-top dresses, hair slightly tousled around her head as if she’d decompressed and allowed herself to run her fingers through it. Perhaps she was marking papers, or relaxing with a glass of wine. Zelda couldn’t help but feel a little breathless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys, this is a little earlier than the usual time I post (like 11pm GMT) but I was impatient x

_ the blue of the sky depends on the darkness of empty space behind it. in which case blue is something of an ecstatic accident produced by void and fire.  _

-

She decided, in the end, to leave early. 

Truthfully, she didn’t trust Faustus not to try something else. He might’ve been fickle when it came down to it, but he was sneaky—cunning, and Zelda couldn’t afford to put herself in a place of vulnerability again. 

It was a resolution she had relearning the depths of Rome, cigarette lit between her lips. She liked the city at night, when the narrow paths were shrouded in streetlight and the moon peered down at her like a protective shield. It was a blue poster tacked to the window of a 24 hour cafe that made up her mind for her. It was a reminder of what she’d left behind—well, who. It was also a reminder of how lonely she felt, walking the streets without a companion (romantic or not). She thought of Mary Wardwell, and how Rome would quite suit her. How the shadows would accentuate her sharp features and pool around her clavicle like a dark lake. She thought of how it would feel to dip her fingers into it. If it would be as hot and burning as the rest of her, or made cold by darkness. 

Entering the cafe, cigarette discarded outside, she ordered a latte and sat in a booth near the back, swirling the drink with her pinky finger and considering her next move. People past by outside in a state of ignorant bliss, the sort of ignorance that made Zelda painfully aware of the burdens ahead. 

Faustus was distracted with other matters, so he wouldn’t make too much of a fuss. There were mutterings of interim Anti-Pope. Before, it might have incited anticipation. She’d married a High Priest, who was set to become an Anti-Pope– even if just for a short period (though knowing Blackwood, he’d find a way to make it stick). Now, it was a bitter thing, like cold metal, a blade, on the tip of her tongue, or the taste of blood—thick and lukewarm, still fresh; straight from the carcass of a dead animal.  


Zelda finished her coffee and returned to the hotel with a bout of determination. She packed meticulously. Folding and refolding her clothes, making sure everything was stacked neatly and shut tight. Faustus barely blinked when she told him she was leaving. It made her hesitate. What could he gain from her leaving? What could he plan so far from Greendale?

The image of Ambrose chained up and shivering in the depths of the Academy dungeons flashed across her mind, and she left the hotel with her jaw set, burying this new image of Rome and replacing it with memories from her youth.

-

The house was quiet when she arrived. A silence that often preceded tragedy. Zelda remembered the silence between Sabrina’s cries after Edward had died. The tension in the air between them all. It had been some of the worst few months of Zelda’s life after losing her brother. A mix of grief and the stress of raising a babe. It was no doubt made easier with three of them in the household, but sometimes Zelda wished it was just her. Just her and little Sabrina. It was selfish, and ridiculous, and a thought she didn’t indulge in often. 

It got easier, overtime, to share. To welcome help. 

She could hear Hilda start tinkering around with something in the kitchen, interrupting the quiet.

“Hilda?” 

The movement stopped, followed by the fall of her hurried footsteps as she rushed into the foyer, face a look of shock. “ _Zelda_? What are you doing back so early?”

Shaking her head, she tried to quell the growing fear that had surrounded her throughout her time in Rome. Hilda’s concerned tone was too much. Eyes stinging, she swallowed the lump in her throat as she brushed past her into the kitchen, holding onto one of the chairs, knuckles turning white. She’d left her luggage near the door. 

“I- well, I decided I didn’t want to be in Rome with Ambrose locked away…” She settled for, taking off her coat and placing it on the chair. 

As if sensing there was more, Hilda squeezed her shoulder, offering a sad smile. “Shall I put the kettle on?”

“Yes, that might be best.” Zelda took a seat, movements careful as she brushed down the tablecloth, removing the creases. “Where’s Sabrina?”

“Locked away in her room. I think she’s made her way through every book in the house, searching for a way to help Ambrose. Poor girl is driving herself mad,” She said, voice filled with sympathy. 

Hilda quietened again as she prepared the tea, though humming something soft and familiar. Zelda hated it—thoughts slipping back to the wedding night, dancing in the hotel room. How her consciousness felt murky, weighted down by phantom chains. Her hands curled into fists. “Could you stop that awful humming?”

Turning to face her, brows furrowed, Hilda tilted her head in confusion. “You’ve always liked this one, Zelds. Ever since you were a little girl.”

“I suppose I’ve grown out of it.”

She stopped humming. Focus, instead, on the two cups before her as she poured the boiled water and added a dash of milk to Zelda’s, an unnecessary amount to her own. Hilda favoured two sugars, Zelda one.

They revelled in the silence, hands curled around their mugs as Hilda pinched the tablecloth between her fingers; ruining Zelda’s careful work. 

“So, what happened in Rome?” She eventually asked, sipping her tea. 

“Lets just say...that I made a mistake by underestimating him.” Finger circling the rim of the cup, she avoided Hilda's insistent eyes. “We’ll have to be careful, with Ambrose. Is there a way we can get him out discreetly? Or even avoid a drastic sentence. Plotting against the Vatican is one thing, but murdering the Anti-Pope.” She’d begun chewing on her thumbnail, voice rushed. 

Quickly, Hilda placed a warm hand over her own. “We haven’t found anything yet, but if we can prove his innocence, it’ll be okay.”

Zelda wondered how you could prove the innocence of a man with the blood of a corpse on his hands. How in Heaven they’d prove he wasn’t the killer. 

It remained that way for the rest of the day. Hanging in a state of crippling uncertainty. Sabrina had come downstairs, surprised by Zelda’s presence. She had tried to hold into some of her annoyance, but still asked if everything was okay. If Faustus had done something. If she was back with bad news. 

Zelda had told her exactly what she’d told Hilda. 

Their lack of answers regarding Ambrose was worrying. The feeling of losing time imminent. Sabrina mentioned how the little ghost boy had come to her with information that the weird sisters planned to torture him.

Cursing Faustus beneath her breath, she concluded they might have to find help elsewhere. There was only one person she could think of to trust with something like this--trust being used lightly. Mary might’ve known more about the academy having been there whilst Edward was High Priest (if there was the slightest chance that was true, she’d use it)—and even if Zelda didn’t trust her, Sabrina had gone to her enough times and found solutions to problems, even though she hated to admit it, and she had been influential in getting Sabrina to sign the book. She was almost certain Mary wasn’t actually working for Faustus, not when her opinion of him was so clearly sour, and she’d fucked his bride to be only a couple of days before the wedding.

She might’ve been their only option. 

Sabrina volunteered to go, being close to the woman. Yet, this felt like something she had to deal with. Whether it was her tendency to place the weight of her family’s actions and predicaments on her shoulders, a responsibility made her own, or something else (certainly not her wish to see Mary) she didn’t know. 

The trail to Mary’s home was shrouded in darkness, the trees gnarled and reaching for the path—as if trying to block light from coming through. The moon still found its way through the branches, however, casting it’s soft glow. 

Steeling her nerves—which, why in Satan’s name she was nervous eluded her—Zelda inhaled sharply, nearing the modest cottage and tucking an errant piece of hair behind her ear to prevent it moving in the wind. 

Her breath swelled in her chest, tight, her swift, quiet knock at the oak in time with her pulse.

Mary opened the door in one of her over-the-top dresses, hair slightly tousled around her head as if she’d decompressed and allowed herself to run her fingers through it. Perhaps she was marking papers, or relaxing with a glass of wine. Zelda couldn’t help but feel a little breathless. 

“I thought you were on your honeymoon?” Mary questioned, eyebrows quirked in slight surprise, a hint of amusement. She looked smug, eyes trailing down her figure suggestively (most likely thinking back to the last time they were alone together - Zelda certainly was). 

Attempting vehemently to ignore the warmth pooling in her stomach, Zelda crossed an arm over her middle, pulling her coat tighter. “Yes, well- I’m not now.” 

Tilting her head at Zelda’s tone, Mary regarded her closely for a few seconds, before stepping aside. “Come in.” 

The room was a lot cosier than Zelda expected, truthfully. Almost quaint and homey, something that rather contrasted Mary as a person. Nearing the fire, she glanced at the wood as it darkened under the flames. She felt the witch beside her before she saw her. 

“Would you like a drink?” 

She turned to her, meeting blue eyes that looked darker in the dull light. “No, thank you.” 

Mary nodded, leaning against the arch of the fireplace. Her dress shifted with the movement, revealing more leg. Her feet were bare, relinquished of their usual ungodly heels. Tracing up to her face again, Zelda almost forgot why she’d come here. 

Licking her lips, sinfully red, Mary stepped closer, hand tracing over the fur of Zelda’s sleeve before it landed on her hip. The light shifted across her face, pooling at her cheeks and swimming in her eyes. 

“I actually came here to ask you about something,” Zelda interrupted, shifting away from the touch.

“Oh,” Mary blinked, stepping back ever so slightly, “Go on.” 

“Well, we’re quite aware of how you’re charged with protecting Sabrina and what not, and the lengths you’d go to help her,” She said flippantly, swallowing down her wounded pride at coming to Mary Wardwell for help. The witch nodded carefully. “As Ambrose is one of her favourite people, as well as Edward’s nephew, would that extend to him?” 

Mary considered her for a second, before nodding again, arm coming to rest over the fireplace right near Zelda’s own. “I don’t see why not. Why? What is it?” 

Toying with a ring on her pinky finger, Zelda looked to the fire. At the hint of a blue flame near the bottom. On Mary’s desk, pushed into the corner of the room, there was a vase. And in it, a single delphinium. It was almost jarring. 

Zelda looked back to her, at her flickering, blue eyes. Had she moved closer? 

“Would you know how to get somebody out of the Academy’s dungeons, or, even the death sentence...” 

Mary raised her eyebrows, gaze unhindered, before stepping closer, “Not off the top of my head. But if you gave me a more... _thorough_ , explanation,” She sniffed the air close to her head, and Zelda breathed deeply at her proximity, “I’m sure we could come up with something, together.” 

“Hmm...” She barely registered Mary’s words or her own response, caving in to the touch at her waist; fingertips dipping into her flesh like the drop of a paper boat into water. 

A hand reached for her neck before she was being pulled into a kiss, mostly a tracing of lips as Mary’s touch remained delicate and just out of reach. Almost as if she wanted Zelda to be the one to initiate anything more.

“Mary, I have to think about Ambrose,” She exhaled sharply as the hand at her neck traced over her throat, fingers splaying beneath her chin as she sank her teeth into Zelda’s lip. 

“I’d hope not.” 

“Mary.” The witch stepped back, eyes flickering with impatience. 

“Nothings going to change within a few minutes,” She assured, fingers curling around Zelda’s sleeves. 

“You think you’ll be done in a few minutes?” Relenting just slightly, she smiled amusedly, taking Mary’s wrists in her hands. They were as warm as the rest of her skin, just bordering on hot. Leaning into her, Zelda’s pulse quickened at her demonic grin. This was the woman that had been on her mind far longer than even their night together, after all. 

“Well, it’s called a quickie for a reason. Lift up your skirt.” 

The words shouldn’t have affected her...but they did. The demanding tone, dripping through her teeth, low and seductive. Zelda complied quickly, starting to pull up her skirt as Mary encircled her waist and drew her in for another kiss, backing her up into the wall. There was no slow buildup– not this time, just teeth and tongue as palms slid her coat down her shoulders and threw it towards an armchair. 

Mary pressed against her over her panties, barely any pressure at all. Zelda rocked her hips into the touch, an arm sliding around her shoulders for leverage. She sucked in a sharp breath, mouth open against Mary’s as she pushed her panties to the side and dipped two fingers into her wetness, spreading it over her slit slowly. 

“Maybe you’re the one that likes to fuck standing up and you were just projecting,” She said, breathless as Mary’s fingers circled her clit, face dipping into her neck. 

They stilled as she leant back to flash her a warning look. “You know, I can stop” 

“Don’t you dare.” Mary cocked her head, going to remove her hand before Zelda grabbed her wrist, trapping it between her legs. “ _Please_.”

Smiling, the witch seemed satisfied with the plea, because she began moving her fingers again, humming against her skin, “That’s a good girl.” Zelda didn’t know whether to feel foolish at the way she keened, or unbothered—past the point of composure. 

In one, swift movement, Mary pressed her fingers into her entrance and curled, Zelda’s grip tightening as she buckled into the motion, groaning against the skin of her neck. 

She started a quick pace, searing and almost rough, thumb reaching up to add to her pleasure, meeting the movement of Zelda’s hips in a steady ebb and flow. 

When she arched her neck, head thudding against the wall, Mary pressed her lips against the side of her throat, teeth grazing the skin. 

It didn’t take long for her to unravel, to Zelda’s mortification, the fingers inside of her kindling the fire beneath her skin and bringing her to a frenzied peak. She didn’t think about how Mary had urged her to meet her eyes just before her orgasm, or how she smoothed down Zelda’s brow just after; as she was catching her breath. 

“That was embarrassing.” Blinking, she sighed as the serene warmth that preceded a good orgasm lingered somewhere around her chest, throat tight as Mary pulled down her skirt and patted her thigh. 

“Hardly,” She scoffed, wiping her fingers against the side of her dress. Zelda’s eyes followed the movement, and the way she flexed them afterwards, as if committing the feeling to memory.

Mary gently halted her hand from skirting under the slit of her dress, placing it against Zelda’s side where she was still pressed against the wall. “Don’t you want me to..?”

“Don’t you worry about that, my dear Zelda.” Stepping back, she allowed her to stand upright. “Let’s worry about Ambrose, hm?”

She retreated like a moving tide, and Zelda might have thought she was unaffected by what had just happened if her eyes didn’t linger, darkened and intense. Without moving her gaze, she poured two fingers of whiskey into a vintage tumbler, repeating the motion with another. Her movements were soft and graceful, seductive even, as she stalked back towards her and handed over a glass, fingers delicately brushing over Zelda’s. 

“The dungeons, you said?” Sipping at her drink, Mary ushered her over to the couch, patting the space beside her and ignoring Zelda’s dumb look - features contorted into a stooped frown. She was surprised by the normalcy of it. 

“Yes, the dungeons.” Gingerly, she took the seat, enough distance placed between herself and Mary to conform to this casual tone. 

The witch didn’t seem to like it, already shifting closer and linking her ankle around Zelda’s.

Looking between their joined feet and Mary’s smirk, she raised a brow behind her whiskey, wondering what she was playing at. Simple intimacy seemed too far-fetched—not after being fucked against her wall, quick and mostly devoid of emotion, save for the eye contact. She deduced it was just another way to seduce her.

“And the High Priest?” Mary queried, a brief flash in her eyes; something dangerous. 

“Still in Rome.”

Humming, she swirled her whiskey, something Zelda found people did mostly for show. With Mary, it seemed entirely authentic. Like the very flavour of the drink would burst out of the seams of the liquid and paint her tongue, just with a small shift of her wrist. 

“So, not as secure as he could be.”

Zelda allowed her to sit in quiet contemplation, looking for quirks. How she ran the glass over her lips when she looked particularly deep in thought; like the cold would ground her. How her foot would shift against Zelda’s calf every so often, and her eyes would flicker around the room as if the walls spoke answers only she could hear, and she was seeking them. 

Her fingers tapped against the side of her thigh, her jaw clenching and unclenching. It revealed an image of somebody behind her careful obscurity; now translucent, like a fading glimmer. Zelda wondered what could be underneath. 

Blue pools found her own, clear and resolute. They searched her for something—an answer to her gaze, a question at her intrigue. Instead, Mary cleared her throat and turned to face her more squarely. 

“Perhaps you could get Hilda to cook him up something and bribe her way in? Leave a key in the food...” She suggested, elbow coming to rest at the back of the sofa, tresses of hair falling over the edge. They looped and meandered like the streams of a waterfall, or the lick of a flame. 

Plotting the execution in her mind, she played out a scene of Hilda’s manipulation, of Prudence’s responses. It seemed quite futile. 

Finishing off her drink, she placed her tumbler on the coffee table with a resounding clink. “Prudence is cautious.”

“This girl, she’s wicked?” Mary questioned, leaning closer. Zelda thought that Mary was quite wicked. Perhaps she saw the thought, tangible, because her teeth caught on her lip in a predatory grin. 

“Yes. She was responsible for Sabrina’s harrowing. She’s smart too. Ambitious,” She listed, placing her thumb against her lip as if to bite at her nail. Mary followed the movement, eyes narrow slits. 

“So, the type to flaunt any offerings made by Ambrose’s aunts?” She questioned, watching the movement of Zelda’s thumb as it traced her lip--quite deliberate. An ounce of payback. “Maybe eat the food, then save him the pathetic leftovers.”

Distracted by her distraction, the comment took a few moments to click, but when it did, Zelda sparked into action. “You’re a genius.” With a flurry, she grabbed Mary’s cheeks and gave her a peck square on the lips (she’d think of this later, no doubt embarrassed). The witch blinked when she let go—truly surprised, watching in quiet wonder as Zelda stood and reached for the coat.

“I have to tell Hilda the plan,” She rambled, slipping on her coat in one swoop and heading towards the door. She hesitated with the handle, turning back to Mary; in the same place on the couch, watching her, eyes blinking slowly like that of an owl’s. ”Thank you.”

The door swung open easily, lighter than she’d thought, following her retreat.

Mary must've scrambled to the door, because her shout followed her down the path, caught before it could shut, “Hey, Zelda!” Turning, she saw her pressed against her doorway, a genuine smile on her lips. It stretched wide, sweet and quite breathtaking (Zelda felt it stutter in her lungs). “Stay safe.”

“Are you getting sentimental on me?” Quirking her eyebrows, she gave Mary what she thought to be a smirk, but might’ve been a little too soft at the edges. In the back of her mind, she registered that it reached her eyes. 

“Never.” She uttered, quieter now. Zelda liked the glint in her eyes, different, not smug, but tinged with a gentleness. 

Zelda thought she was almost certainly lying. 

Perhaps it wasn’t a bad thing—not by Mary Wardwell’s standards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed! this will be coming to a close in a few chapters. It’ll either end at 8 or 9, I’m unsure right now, depends how much I write. 
> 
> lmk ur thoughts x
> 
> btw, I’m on tumblr again @sapphobutworse so if you’d like to hit me up or become mutuals just follow or leave a message :)


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